


The Light At The End

by s0mmerspr0ssen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-07
Updated: 2011-08-07
Packaged: 2017-10-22 08:10:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 21,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/235971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s0mmerspr0ssen/pseuds/s0mmerspr0ssen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In order to make sure that the murderer is caught, Sherlock fakes a coma. However, nobody but Mycroft knows Sherlock isn't actually comatose. Including John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The wonderful [kholly](http://kholly.livejournal.com) helped with grammar and other issues. Thanks so much!
> 
> My medical knowledge is limited to Google. Please excuse glaringly obvious mistakes. ;)

"This might be your worst idea yet."

Mycroft, arms folded across his chest, was leaning against the edge of his desk, staring at his brother disapprovingly. As always, the three-piece suit was immaculate, his dress shoes shiny, which only seemed to enhance the haughty look on his face. As of now, Mycroft had raised those infuriating eyebrows at Sherlock which annoyed the detective to no end.

"It is _not_ ," Sherlock spat, leaning forward in the chair he was sitting on, hands folded by his chin. "It's the perfect deception. The murderer will think I'm out of the picture and finally strike again - _soon_. The Yard can ambush him and London will be rid of yet another serial killer."

Mycroft shook his head, eyes closing briefly, as if Sherlock was a particularly sulky child that needed to be chastised.

"As much as I admire your logic, you _do_ know that this might have other repercussions, don't you?"

Sherlock carefully blinked at him, not knowing what his brother was talking about and not wanting to give that fact away until he had worked it out by himself. Mycroft, however, seemed to know regardless because he sighed and lifted one arm to rub a thumb over the bridge of his nose.

"Sherlock," he said, voice full of exasperation. "Everyone will think you're in a coma. An _actual_ coma."

"That _is_ rather the point, Mycroft."

As much as he despised his brother, Sherlock had never thought him slow on the uptake. Right now, though, Mycroft seemed to be much more _dense_ than Sherlock would have expected him to be. He was a Holmes, after all.

"I don't think _you_ understand," Mycroft retorted, still infuriatingly lofty. " _Everybody_ except me will think you're in a coma. They'll _worry_ , Sherlock. They'll be devastated."

Sherlock didn't really see how that would be a problem.

"So? The murderer will only be completely convinced of my predicament if my close acquaintances seem honestly upset."

"And you don't care that they will worry? I know you don't have many friends, but I was rather convinced you've come to care about some of them, especially our dear Dr Watson."

For a brief moment, Sherlock imagined John's face, lined with worry, sitting in a white, sterile hospital room next to Sherlock's own unconscious and pale body. The mental image made his skin feel the tiniest bit itchy. Shaking his head, Sherlock tried to focus on the matter at hand.

"It won't be for long. My educated estimation is six days until the murderer strikes again. Three to make sure I'm really gone, two to prepare the murder, one to strike. John will manage. He's strong. He's seen worse in Afghanistan."

Mycroft let out a long breath. Clearly, he wasn't convinced. Well, too bad. This wasn't any of his business in the first place. Sherlock had merely requested his help because Mycroft _did_ have better connections and more influence than Sherlock did.

"Very well," his brother said and straightened up. "I'll make the arrangements tonight and let you know in the morning."

He plucked an invisible fluff of lint off his sleeve, then pierced Sherlock with another calculating look. Sherlock glared back at him but to no avail. Mycroft still looked every bit as disapproving as before.

And for a brief moment, Sherlock had the very distinct and disconcerting feeling that _he_ was the one being dense.  
______

John's hands were shaking.

It wasn't the usual tremor that set in whenever he started to feel bored and was craving another of Sherlock's and his breakneck adventures, not just a tremble of fingers and palm.

No. His hands were actually _shaking_ , violently so. A jitter that didn't stop with his wrist, but seemed to make his whole arm move on its own.

"An a-accident?" he stammered, heartbeat fast and worryingly unsteady.

It couldn't be. It just _couldn't._ It seemed to be such an ordinary thing. Accidents didn't happen to one Sherlock Holmes.

Tapping his umbrella against the floor in a distinct rhythm, Mycroft nodded. He seemed genuinely upset and his expression was grave, his eyes lined with worry. Not that it should be very surprising. Sherlock _was_ his brother, after all.

Still.

Mycroft displaying emotions beyond a general bemusement at the world at large was an unusual sight to John's eyes.

"The doctors say there was severe blunt trauma to his head," Mycroft explained, his calm voice so contradictory to his expression. "He won't wake up."

"A coma," John whispered and Mycroft nodded.

John's knees nearly gave out, but luckily, he was standing close to the kitchen counter. He grabbed the edge for support, his other hand rubbing over his face once, twice. He was taking deep breaths, willing the upwelling panic away. Panic wouldn't help now. Panic never helped.

"J-just give me a minute," he told Mycroft, voice embarrassingly high-pitched.

Shouldn't Mycroft be the pale and shaking one here? Sherlock, his _brother_ , had had an accident, was in a _coma_!

But then, a genuinely worried facial expression on a Holmes was probably the equivalent to fainting in common people, as calm and collected as they usually acted.

Really, John was embarrassing himself in front of the man.

 _Get yourself together_ , he quietly berated himself. _You're an army doctor. You've patched up people right on the battlefield with bullets flying over your head. You can deal with this._

It wasn't much, but it helped. After a few minutes of deep breaths and reflexive swallowing, John was finally able to stand without support again. He straightened up, squaring his shoulders, taking another determined breath.

"Can I see him?" he asked, looking over to where Mycroft was still standing in the living room, eyes piercing.

"Of course", he replied. "The car is waiting downstairs."


	2. Chapter 2

_Everything was white, quiet and calm. Not having to think felt nice._  
____

Had Mycroft ever needed further proof that John Watson cared truly and deeply for Sherlock, it was right here in front of him.

The man was still much too pale around his nose, but at least the determination and strength Sherlock had been so impressed with after meeting the man had mostly returned to his eyes and posture. His back was straight against the hospital chair, his hands were mostly calm except for a slight tremor, and his full concentration was on Sherlock's still form in between the white sheets. In his mind, he was probably going through whatever he had ever learned about coma in his career as a doctor.

A casual bystander wouldn't think much of John Watson. Even Mycroft himself, who had always been so very confident about his precise observational skills, had first made that mistake. He was still not entirely sure if the man wasn't doing it on purpose: the woolen jumpers, the quirky little laugh, the subtle flirting. Nothing that would make a person remember or dislike him, nothing that would draw too much attention.

A perfectly average man.

Only he wasn't.

And Sherlock, the epitome of restlessness, of recklessness, had gotten his attention, had lured him in with the promise of danger and excitement.

Mycroft had never thought Sherlock would ever make a friend like Dr Watson. Sure, there had been the odd acquaintance during Sherlock's time at university and later, even the occasional sexual attachment. But nothing truly long-term, nothing like this deep friendship he had built with the ex-soldier.

Mycroft had felt relieved when Dr Watson had stayed, even after the body parts, the kidnappings and the incident at the pool. He cared for Sherlock, in spite or maybe because of his many flaws.

Mycroft had never told the man, but he was truly grateful for his appearance and presence in Sherlock's life.

It was one of the reasons Mycroft felt sorry for what he was doing to him. In a few minutes, he'd have to make Dr Watson leave. In a few minutes, the medical personnel that owed Mycroft many favours and was very skilled, would come in Sherlock's room and, under the pretense of a daily check-up, would inject another dose of strong sedatives.

Dr Watson would know, of course. Mycroft had seen his records, knew that he was good at his job. He'd know when something wasn't right and wouldn't hesitate to react accordingly, wouldn't hesitate to ask what was going on.

Mycroft couldn't risk that.

Sherlock wanted to solve this case, had resorted to these extreme measures to catch the murderer that had struck fear in the hearts of the London people.

Mycroft had looked over the case. He was confident Sherlock's fake-coma would do the trick. The plan by itself was fool-proof if you only cared about catching the murderer, just like Sherlock. By the end of the week, Scotland Yard would be able to tell the press about their success in catching another serial killer.

But that alone hadn't been Mycroft's motivation to give in, to assist Sherlock in his scheme. Mycroft was confident that this could be a valuable lesson to Sherlock and a test for the friendship between his brother and Dr Watson. Mycroft was interested in the outcome, in the aftermath of this.

He could somewhat anticipate Dr Watson's reaction. He'd be hurt, he'd be furious, he might even consider leaving Sherlock for a while, but ultimately he'd come back, would understand Sherlock's need to prioritise his cases. Mycroft was sure about that and it was exactly what Sherlock needed.

Sherlock needed to see that friendship required a sense of responsibility. He had gained a friend and therefore support and endless affection, but in return he needed to consider Dr Watson whenever he made an important decision now. Mycroft had hoped his brother had learned his lesson at the pool, but this whole affair had proven him wrong.

Sherlock still needed to learn and Mycroft would be glad to help his brother on his way to becoming a better person.

Sighing, Mycroft took a step backwards from where he had watched the doctor and Sherlock through the small window in the door. A look at the clock in the hospital hallway told Mycroft that it was time.

He quietly opened the door and closed it behind his back. The noise caused Sherlock's visitor to look up.

It had only been half a day, but Dr Watson already looked very exhausted. Worrying about a dear friend could do that to you. When he realized that it was Mycroft entering, he smiled up at him sadly but encouragingly. He got up from the only chair, offering his seat to Mycroft.

"Back already?" he enquired quietly, as if not to disturb Sherlock. Ridiculous but understandable - an instinctual reaction.

Mycroft already regretted what he would have to do now. The obvious attempt to comfort and support him was appreciated but obviously unnecessary. Mycroft wasn't worried about Sherlock.

If at all, Mycroft was worried about _Dr Watson_.

But the other man didn't know that, of course, and it was cruel to keep him in the dark like this, truly cruel.

"I am," he replied, eyes flickering briefly to where Sherlock's breathing was supported by machines he didn't really need. "I'm sorry, but for today, you must leave."

The doctor's eyes widened, hands curling into fists reflexively as the rejection hit him unexpectedly. Then, with the control of a soldier, he relaxed again. His eyes even became warmer, more understanding than before.

"Of course," he half-whispered, voice a bit rough.

He probably thought Mycroft wanted some time with Sherlock for himself. Mycroft knew that every instinct in Dr Watson was telling him that he wasn't supposed to leave, that he had to watch over Sherlock until he got better. In spite of that, he was being considerate of Mycroft's feelings and wishes.

He was a good man. Mycroft would hate for Sherlock to lose such a formidable friend.

Mycroft nodded and the doctor walked over to the door, passing Mycroft closely. He was sure the brush of arms was deliberate, a subtle form of comfort, something Mycroft would have truly appreciated had Sherlock been in a real coma.

Dr Watson stopped at the door, hand on the door handle.

"His chart isn't here," he stated, "but I think his doctor or one of the nurses might have taken it. I thought that maybe - if you don't mind, of course - I could take a look?" He laughed a tiny, dry laugh. "A second opinion, maybe?"

Had the circumstances been different, Mycroft would have gladly taken him up on the offer, if only to give the doctor the comfort of being at least able to _try_ and help. But the situation was special. After all, there was no chart that spoke of blunt head trauma and coma, only a schedule and list of sedatives.

"I'm paying the best doctors I know. I don't think your opinion is necessary, Dr Watson. Go home." Mycroft hesitated but couldn't help and soften his voice at the nearly crestfallen look on the other man's face. "Eat something. Get some sleep."

"I- I understand," Dr Watson murmured in reply and nodded, slowly opening the door. "I'll be back tomorrow?"

It sounded like a question. Mycroft realised he was asking for permission to return. For a brief moment, Mycroft wondered what the doctor would do if he didn't allow it. He'd probably show up regardless.

That thought was a comforting one.

"Of course," he replied and with another brief smile, Dr Watson left.

As the door fell shut, Mycroft stepped up to his brother's bed. Sherlock looked calm and peaceful - a state he was never truly able to achieve when he was awake and alert.

"You're lucky to have him," he told Sherlock, even though his brother couldn't hear him.


	3. Chapter 3

_Sometimes, something warm would touch him for hours, rubbing small circles into Sherlock's skin. It was nice._  
____

John wasn't surprised when on the third day, DI Lestrade showed up in the hospital room, wearing his grey coat and a soft smile.

He gave John a quick once-over, eyes resting briefly on where John's fingers were curled around Sherlock's, caressing the skin with his thumb like a mother might do with her sick child. It was a soothing activity for John. It calmed him. Maybe it calmed Sherlock as well, wherever his conscience was floating about at the moment.

"You look like shit," Lestrade eventually declared, leaning against the door frame, warm eyes crinkling in concern.

John gave him a sad smile in response.

"Thank you," he joked weakly.

Maybe he should be embarrassed that Lestrade had caught him holding Sherlock's hand, maybe he shouldn't.

John didn't care.

John just wanted Sherlock to wake up, wanted him to call him an idiot and drag him all over London because of some stupid case that would surely get them into trouble. John would rather fight a thousand criminals than sit here, doing absolutely nothing of significance.

Only watching and waiting.

"How is he?" Lestrade asked, eyes moving to where Sherlock was lying, face covered in a respiratory mask.

His voice was low, concern evident in the slightly gruff voice.

"Comatose."

Lestrade grunted and John couldn't help but laugh a short, rather pathetic laugh. Sherlock liked laughing at inappropriate times and places. He'd appreciate the gallows humour, especially if it involved him.

"You haven't gotten much sleep, have you?"

John's eyes re-focused on Sherlock's relaxed face. Sherlock who hardly ever slept. Maybe his body had simply decided that enough was enough and was now catching up on two or three years worth of sleep. It was a silly but comforting thought.

"I haven't," he agreed quietly.

Lestrade cleared his throat into the awkward silence that followed, shifting a bit.

"I think you need to get out of here for a while. The nurses say you haven't once left unless his brother asked you to. This can't be healthy."

John stiffened, the movement of his thumb coming to a brief halt.

"I- I can't," he murmured, feeling oddly self-conscious at the admission. "I don't want him to wake up and- and be _alone_." He paused, swallowing down a lump that had formed in his throat. "It's been three days. I haven't seen his chart but the chances of waking up are usually better in the first week."

"I'm sure he could manage," Lestrade replied.

John resumed the soothing pattern of rubbing his finger over Sherlock's hand, over and over, skin against skin. He knew Lestrade was simply concerned, was trying to help. It was a nice gesture. John appreciated the thought.

"I can't," he repeated, unable to look up and meet Lestrade's eyes.

John wondered what the DI thought about him just then. Did he think Sherlock and John had secretly been in a relationship all the time, that they were partners, _lovers_?

Not that it mattered. As much as it annoyed John sometimes, constantly having to explain their odd friendship to people, he'd rather sit in a restaurant right now and get a free dessert because the waitress found that Sherlock and he made a cute couple.

Anything was better than keeping watch at his bedside, waiting for him to show any signs of improvement, of awakening.

"All right," Lestrade murmured.

Heavy, steady footsteps told John that he was approaching the bed and a moment later, a warm hand appeared on his shoulder. John leaned into the touch - it felt nice.

"I'm sure he'll be fine. He's way too stubborn to give up like this. Besides, he'd want to die with a big bang. Quietly withering away isn't his style."

And this time, John laughed genuinely, a small wave of mirth welling up inside of him at the thought of Sherlock doing anything quietly or unobtrusively, like a delicate little wallflower.

"It really isn't," he agreed, still chuckling.

The hand on his shoulder squeezed tight, then disappeared, leaving a lingering presence where it had been.

"I'm also sure he'll be pleased to know that even in a coma, he's about to solve yet another case."

Surprised, John looked up, gaze enquiring.

"The serial killer?" he asked, thinking back to the case he and Sherlock had been on a few days ago.

Lestrade nodded in confirmation. It seemed as if that had been ages ago when really, it had been but a couple of days. The world seemed strangely empty without Sherlock.

"Sherlock gave us a name shortly before his accident. We don't have anything concrete at the moment but the man, the suspect - he's been to this hospital today, asking around."

John narrowed his eyes.

"They haven't given out Sherlock's medical information, have they?" he demanded, feeling a tad suspicious.

Surely, they wouldn't? Medical confidentiality was nothing to be tampered with. John was certain that Mycroft wouldn't have any of it. Heads would roll.

"Of course not," Lestrade was quick to explain. "He hasn't really asked for Sherlock specifically. He had a completely sound reason to be here, actually, and he wasn't really _asking_ , just pretending to do some small talk with some of the medical staff. But I know better than that. This wasn't a coincidence. He was making sure Sherlock's out of the picture. Might have sneaked a peek through the window, just to make sure he's properly out of it."

It made sense, John supposed. He was glad Mycroft had arranged for a private room, was making sure Sherlock got all the privacy and treatment he needed. It would have been so much easier for the suspect to actually sneak _into_ Sherlock's room would he have shared it with other, random strangers.

Lestrade looked at his wrist, checking the time on his watch, and winced.

"All right, I've got to go."

John nodded.

"Thanks," he told him, sincerely feeling grateful for the support and information alike. "For popping in and all."

Lestrade's voice was rough when he answered.

"No problem. And keep your chin up."


	4. Chapter 4

_On occasions, it felt like he was drifting back to the surface, but then, just before he'd reach it, he would drown again, once more sinking back into the white, quiet peacefulness._  
____

This time, Dr Watson wasn't on his own.

Mrs Hudson, Sherlock's ever-so-patient landlady, was sitting on the chair next to Sherlock's bed, but facing Dr. Watson who was leaning against the wall with a soft smile on his face. He was listening attentively to whatever the woman was telling him about, answering briefly on occasions when his input was expected. He seemed more relaxed than he had usually been in this room.

Mycroft hesitated in front of the door. He didn't want to intrude until he really had to.

There was a thermos jug and a cup on Sherlock's nightstand and some kind of food crumbs on Dr Watson's sleeves, Mycroft casually observed. She had brought him some dinner, then.

Good.

Dr Watson had badly neglected his eating habits in favour of staring at Sherlock's unconscious body for what had clearly been unhealthy periods of time. Some company that was capable of holding up a conversation, and basic nutrition were exactly what Dr Watson needed.

There were dark circles around the man's eyes and his hands hadn't ceased trembling for at least the last two days. Clearly, the worry about Sherlock's apparently unchanged condition was taking its toll on him.

Mycroft sighed, checked the time and opened the door.

It was the day of the last scheduled injection. Tomorrow, Sherlock would be awake again. The murderer would strike tonight.

Dr Watson's eyes quickly moved to meet Mycroft's. The way his mouth tightened a bit, losing the smile he had been sporting for the last couple of minutes, Mycroft knew that the man understood why Mycroft had come in.

It was time to leave. Just like every other night of this week, Dr Watson was expected to go home, to return to an empty flat on Baker Street.

"Mr Holmes," Mrs Hudson greeted him, voice as warm as Mycroft remembered it from their first meeting. They had never become overly familiar, but she seemed to like Mycroft well enough. "Look at you, you're so very pale, you could lie down right next to Sherlock. Have you been eating enough or neglecting yourself like our dear John?"

She was smiling, but Mycroft could see the anxious crinkles around her eyes. Clearly, she was just as worried about Sherlock as Dr Watson, but much more capable of dealing with it. She had always been a rather pragmatic woman.

Mycroft inclined his head in greeting.

"Not to worry, Mrs Hudson, I am feeling quite all right, given the circumstances," he said, stepping closer but keeping the door behind him ajar.

Taking the hint, Mrs Hudson nodded and reached out to place the things she had brought back into her basket on the floor. Dr Watson jumped to her help immediately.

"We can share a cab back home, my dear," the woman told him, accepting the dishes with a grateful little nod.

"Of course, Mrs Hudson. I just want to talk to Mycroft real quickly, if that's all right with you."

Standing up and picking up her things, Mrs Hudson agreed and left the room, but not without stroking motherly over Sherlock's head, messing up the dark curls ever so slightly.

Raising his eyebrows, Mycroft looked at the doctor expectantly. He was clearly bracing himself for what would be a rather important conversation. Mycroft already had an idea what it would be about.

"It's nearly been a week," Dr Watson said, eyes moving to Sherlock briefly. "You do know the chances of brain damage increase considerably after seven to eight days, don't you? Have they run any tests at all? What's the prognosis? I _still_ haven't been able to spot his chart. Or any kind of data, really."

He didn't sound suspicious though, rather a fair bit angry and also clearly desperate for information. No doubt, Dr Watson was thinking that Mycroft was deliberately keeping the information away from him. Mycroft couldn't even argue with that. He _was_ holding back information after all. Only not the kind Dr Watson was thinking of.

"There was no change," was all Mycroft replied.

His own medical knowledge of comatose conditions was rather limited. Any kind of further explanation would risk the chances of letting something slip that the doctor would find odd. Mycroft knew better than that.

Dr Watson didn't seem happy with the brief response, however.

"What's going to happen? Will they move him somewhere else? Do more tests? They can't just let him lie here with needles in his arm and wait for improvement."

Mycroft very nearly sighed. Dr Watson was so very concerned about his brother, even as he was slowly losing hope that there would be improvement. Mycroft really hated this charade.

"This is none of your concern, Dr Watson. Sherlock is in very capable hands. In fact, his doctor is scheduled to come by for another check-up in a few minutes. As for now, Mrs Hudson is still waiting for you outside."

It was a clear dismissal, but the doctor was being stubborn.

"Then let me talk to him, Mycroft. Just-" He paused and the tension is his shoulders decreased a bit as he raised a hand to rub over his face, clearly feeling tired and defeated. "It's been a week. There must be _something_ I can do! Just let me have _some_ information, something to work with."

Mycroft smiled sadly at him.

"I'm glad you want to help, Dr Watson-"

"John," the doctor interrupted. "We'll be meeting every night until there's some change, you might as well call me John."

"Very well, _John_ ," Mycroft continued, feeling oddly touched at the offer and the implication that John planned to be by Sherlock's side until the very end. "Like I said: I'm happy you're willing to help, that you care this much. But as I told you before there is simply nothing you could do. You're not an expert for coma patients. You're forte is combat, stress situations and working with limited supplies. All very important skills, no doubt, though they won't be helpful to Sherlock at the moment."

Mycroft knew his words had hit home when Dr Watson - no, _John_ was squeezing his eyes shut. Clearly, he had had the same thoughts, might even have expected the kind of answer Mycroft had given him.

John turned to stare at Sherlock.

"It's just- he's always been so full of life, you know? Vibrant, energetic, exciting. He's made _me_ feel alive again." He paused, drawing in a shattering breath. "I _hate_ to see him like this. I feel so... so _helpless_."

John's voice sounded tired and a little bit broken. Something in Mycroft wanted to reach out and comfort the man though it hardly was appropriate. It was all just a lie, after all. Comforting the man when Mycroft was deceiving him like this would be very, very wrong.

"I know," was all he said.

John looked back at him with a sad smile.

"Mrs Hudson is waiting so... I'll be gone." He paused. "See you tomorrow, Mycroft."

It was a promise.

Mycroft watched him leave with a heavy heart.

When Sherlock's doctor and a trusted nurse finally entered, Mycroft watched them insert the sedative. The clear liquid slowly dripped into Sherlock's arm in a lazy pace. The way Sherlock's veins looked deep blue against the pale skin reminded him painfully of the times when Sherlock had still been taking drugs, consuming all kinds of chemicals in all kinds of ways to calm his racing thoughts, to numb the feelings he didn't want to feel.

It had been years ago, but Mycroft would never forget the destructiveness of Sherlock's actions. _Never._

 __The murderer would strike tonight, Mycroft was sure of it. Mostly by CCTV, he had been keeping an eye on the man who was clearly feeling safe enough to indulge in another killing - he had already made all necessary preparations. The man liked the thrill of taking a life, of being the master of death, and he couldn't wait to have another go, to feel the rush once more. He didn't know the police suspected him and for once, Scotland Yard wasn't being as incompetent as Sherlock liked to make them look.

The murderer had no idea what would happen and would walk right into a trap.

But Mycroft didn't care much for the killer other than his disappearance would give the press more time to dwell on other issues Mycroft might have to deal with should they fall into his field of duties. As for now, tomorrow night would mean awakening Sherlock.

Mycroft was feeling oddly nervous about the confrontation with John his brother would undoubtedly have to face.

At first, Sherlock would simply be waking up from a coma, of course, and John would be overjoyed and wondering whether or not talking to Sherlock or contacting Mycroft first should be his priority. Knowing the doctor's sense of duty, Mycroft would make sure he'd be around in time for Sherlock's scheduled "recovery" so John could focus solely on Sherlock.

It would be a long, exhausting night and either way, Mycroft would have to pick up the pieces. Mycroft had already prepared a bedroom for Sherlock in his house as he was sure Sherlock would not be able return to Baker Street unless John decided to sleep over at a friend's house. But the man hated to inconvenience anybody like that, especially ever since the incident at the pool had been so unfortunately linked with his desire to stay with his former girlfriend, Sarah.

John would be angry, furious and _hurt_. Very much hurt, in fact. Mycroft could already imagine his crestfallen expression, slowly closing up to hide his emotions from the outside world. It made him feel uncomfortable. Mycroft _liked_ the doctor. Inflicting pain on him was not something Mycroft enjoyed.

Still. This was a lesson Sherlock had to learn and for Sherlock's sake, for Sherlock's well-being, Mycroft would do anything. That much he knew. Family loyalty was something Mycroft valued very much indeed.

"That should be all," the doctor murmured, looking up at Mycroft expectantly.

He nodded at the man and the nurse in approval.

"Very well. Your help has been indispensable. Thank you."

The doctor nodded and the nurse briefly checked the machines that Sherlock was hooked up to, then left. She inclined her head as a silent good-bye.

Mycroft, however, didn't leave. He sat down on the chair, leaning back to observe his brother's still form.

This was where John had been sitting, day by day, hour by hour, simply looking at Sherlock, holding his hand and hardly leaving his bedside unless he had to use the loo. The nurses had informed Mycroft that mostly, John had been quiet, only talking on rare occasions when he'd open his mouth and spill story after story, hardly stopping to take a breath.

John truly cared, probably a bit too much. He had taken a holiday at work, using up the few free days he had saved up for special occasions to sit with Sherlock instead. Of course, Mycroft had already arranged to change the days absent to sick days. John shouldn't be suffering because of Sherlock's antics. Not anymore than he was already doing on a day-to-day basis, of course.

What a truly wonderful friend he was to Sherlock. So very self-sacrificing, though of course Mycroft had already known that, ever since the pool.

How long would it take Sherlock and John to reconcile? How much damage would the argument do? Mycroft was still very confident that the friendship could survive this hideous business but still - emotions were not always predictable. There might be factors Mycroft had been unaware of, previous experiences in John's life that would alter the outcome.

There was still time to tell the man about the plan, to direct the inevitable fury and hatred towards Mycroft. He could take the blame, could shield his little brother from his friend's wrath. A tiny part of Mycroft, the part that was the most protective about his brother to a point where it crossed the line of self-preservation, wanted to do just that. But what would Sherlock learn from that? Nothing. He'd just go and do something else that'd drive his friend away.

No.

This, at least, was controlled. Mycroft knew in advance what, approximately at least, would happen. The only thing he truly worried about was getting Sherlock to stay with Mycroft. He knew how much his brother despised him on occasions. Surely, he'd find a way to blame Mycroft for the outcome of this, twist the situation to his favour until he could convince himself that it was all Mycroft's fault. Even a genius like Sherlock was able to fool himself.

Mycroft sighed. He _really_ wasn't looking forward to tomorrow.


	5. Chapter 5

_He was waking up properly this time. There was no feeling of drowning, of being pulled back into the quietness. Slowly but surely, he was regaining consciousness. For a brief moment, he was feeling regretful. The moment passed as quickly as it had come._  
____

 _Mycroft is early tonight_ , John thought, greeting the man with a nod and a half-hearted smile.

Some part of him felt resentful that Mycroft would probably kick him out of Sherlock's room early tonight. The other parts told him not to be egoistic. After all, Mycroft was Sherlock's _brother_ , whereas John was merely his _flatmate_.

And friend. Best friend, actually.

"Good afternoon, John," Mycroft said, eyes flickering over to where Sherlock was lying, unimproved and pale.

John was still in awe about how calm and collected Mycroft could be in the light of his brother's state. Though John had never seen him spend a lot of time with Sherlock here.

Maybe, once Mycroft was left alone with his brother, the controlled façade would crumble in favour of showing worry and grief? It would be such a Holmesian thing to do, keeping all emotions locked away until they were alone, where no one could see that they, too, were vulnerable.

"No changes, as far as I can tell," John murmured, ready to get up from the chair and leave, but Mycroft made a dismissing motion with his hand.

John sank back down on the chair, a bit surprised but glad he didn't have to leave early after all. Just yesterday night he had realised once more how empty his life was without Sherlock's constant presence. What a pathetic life he led, really, that sitting beside a comatose man, holding his limp hand, was better than going home or meeting up with somebody else.

When he had become so dependent on the excitement and support provided by Sherlock's existence?

Mycroft inclined his head. Instead of watching Sherlock, however, his eyes were focused solely on John. In that moment, Mycroft looked very much like Sherlock at a crime scene: observing, calculating, incredibly intelligent. The sudden family resemblance was almost eerie and John had to look away to avoid that penetrating look all together.

"Are you feeling all right today, John?"

John automatically smiled just as he always did when somebody asked about his well-being these days. No doubt, Mycroft had picked up on the falseness of it, but he couldn't care less.

"Sure. Just a bit tired."

Mycroft exhaled a tad too loudly and it almost sounded like a sigh.

"Ah. I see."

John could see from the very corner of his eyes that Mycroft had turned away and was now letting his umbrella swing lightly on two fingers.

It reminded John of their first meeting at the warehouse, back when John had thought him a criminal mastermind and Mycroft had been sure John would be a safety risk for his brother. Now, they were calling each other by their first names and visited an unconscious Sherlock on a regular basis.

Funny, how life played out. Or sad, rather.

Mycroft stayed for a long time, quietly pacing the room, occasionally stopping to watch John. John never looked up, but he knew when he was being watched, especially by a Holmes. Living with Sherlock would give you some kind of hypersensitivity to observing eyes. It still made him uncomfortable, though.

Eventually, Mycroft went completely silent and stopped moving all together. John immediately looked up, frowning.

"Something the matter?" he asked, thinking he had caught a glimpse of anticipation on Mycroft's face before it had been replaced by his usual calm demeanor.

Mycroft's eyes flew from where they had rested on Sherlock to John. His eyebrows twitched a bit and his free hand reached for the inside pocket of his suit jacket, retrieving a mobile phone.

"No, though I think I'll have to step outside for a few moments. An important call I forgot about."

John only nodded and with a last look for Sherlock, Mycroft left the room, which John was secretly glad about.

It had been a bit uncomfortable, being watched as he watched Sherlock, rubbing his thumb over his friend's hand in what had now become a habit. Mycroft knew, of course, that this was what John had been doing for the past week, but still - Mycroft had probably deduced his every thought and emotion from the way his little finger twitched or something equally impossible.

Then, suddenly, he saw it. Sherlock's feet - moving under the blanket, if only briefly.

John stared at them, unbelieving but willing them to do it again. They did.

He tried to keep calm. Comatose patients moved sometimes, but it didn't necessarily mean there was any improvement. Muscle twitches and the occasional rolling eyes were actually quite common in many cases, even though Sherlock hadn't shown any movement when John had been around.

When Sherlock's fingers started flexing where John was holding them in a loose grasp, John was on the edge of his seat. Sherlock's head started moving a bit, lolling to the side as much as possible with the oxygen mask still in place. A light groan escaped, muffled by the plastic.

John was sure now: he was waking up. Sherlock was _waking up_.

A wave of hope welled up inside of John, followed by pieces of panic and anxiety. Waking up didn't necessarily mean that Sherlock would be all right. Sherlock's brain might have been damaged, especially if Sherlock had been without oxygen for a certain amount of time. If only he had seen his bloody chart. If only he knew anything about the accident but the ominous explanation that was _blunt head trauma_.

Suddenly, John remembered Mycroft. He should get him, right now. But that would mean leaving Sherlock, and Mycroft would probably return in a few minutes anyway once his phone call was done with.

When Sherlock's eyelids fluttered, John went back to staring, fingers squeezing Sherlock's hand which moved once more in response.

Sherlock blinked, squinted, blinked, closed his eyes briefly, then blinked some more. John was sure his eyes were burning from the bright light and dryness. A nurse had administered eye drops once when John had been around but had all but fled when John had started asking her any questions. Undoubtedly Mycroft's doing.

Another groan. A groan that might have been a word, had the oxygen mask not prevented it.

Fairly confident that Sherlock could do a few moments without it, John got up, let go of Sherlock's fingers and leaned forward to carefully pull off the mask. Sherlock lifted his head as the plastic was removed, eyes rolling and unfocused until finally, he locked his eyes with John's. His pupils, John noted, were a bit dilated.

"Joo _ohnnnn_ ," Sherlock mumbled.

John bit back the tears of relief welling up at the obvious recognition. Recognising people was good. Very good indeed. A fairly good sign that Sherlock would come out of this without any or with very little damage. So was speaking and moving and... and waking up at an astonishingly quick rate, the doctor in John finally began to notice.

He grabbed Sherlock's hand again but kept standing, observing how Sherlock seemed to become more and more lucid by the second. _By the second._

Clearly, something was going on. John simply didn't know what that something was. He wasn't one to believe in miracle healings, but there _had_ been some astonishing coma cases before, he knew that much.

"Johnnn... Jooohn," Sherlock repeated, having no problems whatsoever with his breathing, nor with forming mumbled but understandable words.

His mouth twisted into an odd sort of smirk as he lifted his free arm, maybe to touch John or to simply look at his hand. A frown appeared on his features when the needle of his drip infusion tugged at his skin, probably quite painfully. Sherlock seemed confused.

"Wha-?" he mumbled.

John reached over the bed and gently pressed Sherlock's arm back onto the mattress.

"Don't move that, Sherlock, all right?" he told him in what he hoped was a soothing tone.

"M-kay."

Sherlock blinked again, then smacked his lips a bit.

"Water?"

John nodded, squeezed Sherlock's hand and let go. There was a bottle of water and a cup on the nightstand. Small sips should do. For whatever reason, Sherlock seemed to already have regained control over most of his muscles, so swallowing shouldn't be an issue.

 _When really, it_ should _be_ , John thought, then shook his head.

It didn't matter this was all a bit odd. More than odd. Sherlock was awake and needed help and John was only too happy to assist him.

He pressed the cup against Sherlock's dry lips, hands trembling ever so slightly, and gently let the water drip into his friend's mouth, sip by sip. Sherlock swallowed, if a bit awkwardly, but didn't cough any of it up. It was barely enough to moisten his mouth in the first place. The odd smirk returned to Sherlock's lips.

"It work?" Sherlock asked.

His speech was still slurred but definitely improving now. John put the cup aside and couldn't resist to brush a stray curl of hair away from Sherlock's eyes.

"What works?"

Sherlock made a noise that sounded a bit like a giggle, something John could have never imagined coming from the man's mouth.

"My plan."

John had to admit that confused him a bit. Plan? What plan? Maybe it had to do with their last case. Sherlock had clearly been out to do _something_ when he had had his accident. Maybe a plan to catch the murderer? Sounded sensible, at least.

"What plan, Sherlock? You had an accident, do you remember? You're in the hospital now."

Sherlock giggled _again_.

"No _oo_ ," he said, drawing out the _o_ for a fair bit. "No accident. It's aa _all_ a pla _aan_."

John stared at him. He knew he shouldn't take anything that Sherlock said for granted right now. He probably wasn't actually lucid at the moment. He was just waking up.

But this - this wasn't how coma patients reacted at all when they woke up. This was different, as if Sherlock was a bit - a bit _high_ , actually. It reminded John of people waking up from an operation, waking up from their administered _anaesthetics_.

Something inside of John clenched together painfully.

"Sherlock," he addressed his friend, voice careful. "What was your plan?"

Sherlock's smile turned wide and honest, as if he were a child telling about his first adventure. He blinked at John with sparkling eyes.

"T'was brilliant, John. I was sleeping and he's making mistakes."

His voice was becoming less and less slurry now and his pale eyes could focus more properly. The smile, however, didn't yet vanish from Sherlock's features. He looked as if he was in complete bliss.

"Sleeping," John repeated, narrowing his eyes as he tried to piece the puzzle together. "Who made mistakes while you were sleeping, Sherlock?"

The look Sherlock gave him was the pretty similar to one he'd use at a crime scene, preferably for Anderson or Donovan.

"The murderer, John. Always the murderer."

Then, he closed his eyes again. Clearly, he wasn't going back to _sleep_ , just enjoying his little high. Because that was what it was - a simple _high_. The aftermath of being thoroughly sedated.

John felt like he had to throw up. It didn't need a genius like Sherlock to work this all out. Knees buckling, John walked backwards until his legs hit the chair which he sank down on immediately.

Sherlock's plan to catch the murderer while sleeping. Lestrade telling John how the murderer had come to the hospital to check on Sherlock. Mycroft hiding the charts, hiding any kind of information regarding Sherlock's current state. Fleeing, slightly panicked nurses.

It all made sense. Horrible, frightening sense.

A farce. A charade. A _game_.

John felt like the room was spinning. He needed proof. A slurring half-lucid Sherlock really wasn't proof for anything, was he? Looking at his friend once more who was still lying in the bed, blissfully smiling, John's eyes came to a rest on the big white patch on the back of Sherlock's head.

In case there really was a head injury, there were possible explanations. Special kinds of medicine administered by Sherlock's secret doctor that had similar effects. Or maybe, this was just Sherlock once more going against the rules. Leave it to bloody Sherlock Holmes to come up with his own method of beating a coma, right?

But if there wasn't... John didn't even want to think this through.

He got up once more, legs embarrassingly wobbly. He stepped up to the bed, slowly reaching for Sherlock's head. As he touched the hair close to the thick, white patch, Sherlock's eyes opened once more.

"John," he said, smiling so openly it nearly hurt. "Living with you's _fun_. You're so nice... and you can shoot..."

Biting his lip, John only nodded at the babbling and gently, as if not to hurt his friend, removed the thick, white patch. All he found was more hair.

A noise, half sob half angry growl, escaped John as the truth hit home and Sherlock's eyes widened a bit as he was startled by it. John wondered how long it'd take Sherlock to be properly lucid. He didn't know what effects a week's worth of sedatives had on a person. Sedatives, no coma at all.

It had all been a lie.

"John," Sherlock spoke once more, for once oblivious to what was going on. "I'm fine. My head's fine. Fine, fine..."

John stared at him. He didn't want to shout at him like this. Right now, Sherlock wasn't really himself, even looked a tad vulnerable with that smile and the wide eyes and the infusion needle still firmly in place.

But John was angry. Angry and hurt because he had sat in this very room for one week, thinking Sherlock would never, ever wake up again, thinking he wasn't good enough to look at his chart and help him, thinking about his own pathetic little life. John wanted to show Sherlock just _how much_ that angered and hurt him.

"Nothing's _fine_ ," he snapped and took a step back.

He was fairly sure he might hit something, possibly Sherlock himself, and needed to get away from the medical equipment and the bed. He couldn't stay here. He felt as if he'd burst any moment, felt like a time bomb close to exploding.

"John?" Sherlock said again, sounding honestly confused and so very innocent.

And John ran. He turned, pulled the door open and ran into the hallway. Naturally, he nearly bumped into Mycroft.

Mycroft Holmes who had probably engineered the whole farce. Mycroft Holmes who had acted as if he was pitying John when it had all been one of Sherlock's little games.

It was inevitable. All the anger and hurt he had not been able to focus on Sherlock, vulnerable and still pale in his hospital bed, Sherlock who he had worried about for a whole week, seven days, dozens of endless hours - all the anger and hurt went into one, well-placed slap.

For some reason, the look of utter shock on Mycroft's face wasn't at all satisfying. The man lifted his hand, fingers brushing over the reddening skin and opened his mouth to say something. Something John didn't want to hear.

John brushed past him roughly and ran, rushing down hallway after hallway, leaving the hospital and all of it behind as he disappeared into the crowds of London, feeling angrier than ever before in his life.


	6. Chapter 6

Mycroft was shocked which, to him at least, was a fairly unusual thing. Mycroft prided himself on planning and controlling close to anything happening in the lives of himself and the people around him.

The slap definitely hadn’t been planned.

Carefully brushing a hand over the tender flesh of his quickly reddening cheek, Mycroft stared after John and silently rebuked himself.

He should have seen it coming, really. It hadn’t taken a genius to correctly interpret the devastated expression on John’s face that had appeared shortly after Sherlock had woken up and opened his mouth. Clearly, Sherlock had said something about his plan and, being Sherlock, had done so in the most insensitive way possible.

The only thing that was off about the whole thing was that it had been _Mycroft_ who had received the slap whereas Sherlock was still in bed, mostly unharmed except for his expression of total confusion and loss, which Mycroft hadn’t seen on Sherlock’s face in years. Of course, Mycroft had been sure John would be angry with him as well. But John hadn’t even really shouted at Sherlock, not to mention hit him.

Becoming suspicious, Mycroft entered the hospital room once more, bracing himself for a heated argument regarding the situation and John in particular.

However, Sherlock only looked up at him with wide eyes as if seeking guidance.

"John left."

Mycroft immediately noticed the difference in his brother’s voice. Sherlock wasn’t slurring, not really, but there was just something about the _tone_ that made Mycroft narrow his eyes in suspicion.

"He looked angry," Sherlock continued his correct but utterly inaccurate observation.

And _finally_ , Mycroft caught on. The sedatives! The doctor _had_ mentioned that waking up could be a bit of a funny process, that Sherlock would be likely to talk nonsense or say things he normally wouldn’t.

Suddenly understanding _exactly_ what had happened in the room only minutes ago, Mycroft felt like slapping _himself_ for his stupidity.

Sherlock wasn’t lucid right now. Sedatives could do weird things with a person’s mind and of course, John would have ended up saying something causing Sherlock to let a few things slip, if not the whole plan. And, with Sherlock being like _this_ , John would have never harmed or shouted at him.

How had he not thought about this when leaving John and Sherlock alone once he had noticed that his brother was waking up?

Missing something obvious like this in his job could very well mean losing the lives of hundreds of people or risking a diplomatic scandal of enormous proportions. Mycroft blamed it on the fact that it was all a rather personal and emotional matter and swore to be even more careful in the future when it came to things like this.

A Holmes didn’t slack.

"He _was_ angry, Sherlock. You told him about the plan, I assume?" he said, hoping Sherlock would make some scathing comment about Mycroft stating the obvious – something Mycroft would never even _think_ under usual circumstances.

Sherlock only nodded, though, and narrowed his eyes a bit. He was shaking his head slightly, as if he were feeling dizzy. Clearly, Mycroft’s latest statement had at least caused Sherlock to try and make sense of the whole situation and apparently, he was having problems focusing.

Mycroft could only hope the sedatives would wear off soon – or, if not, at least make him a bit more compliant.

"I did. I- I shouldn’t have?" Sherlock replied, sounding unsure.

Mycroft sighed.

"No, Sherlock, you really shouldn’t have. You hardly gave him five minutes to collect himself. What exactly did you say?"

Sherlock looked down and brushed a hand over the blanket in a perfect imitation of a chastised child. However, he seemed to find the texture of the fabric so fascinating that he got distracted for a moment and repeated the motion several times until Mycroft pointedly cleared his throat.

Head snapping up, Sherlock blinked a few times, probably trying to remember what the question had been.

"He said I had an accident and he was worried about my head," he eventually explained, pointing to where John had removed the dressing. "But my head’s fine so I told him just that and after he checked he got angry."

By the end, Sherlock sounded more annoyed than confused. Undoubtedly, he still hadn’t really caught on and was unable to understand that his sudden telling had probably been the worst thing he could have done at this point.

"Did I solve the case, though?" he added in interest, very much like his usual self, if a bit more eager and with wide, expecting eyes.

"Yes, you did," Mycroft told him dryly. "The police have caught him red-handed as he was about to kill yet another person. However, John isn’t too happy about your _method_ of proving the murderer’s guilt."

Feeling that for once, he could get away with it, Mycroft slowly sat down on the edge of Sherlock’s bed and lightly placed a hand on his brother’s leg, still covered by the blanket. Sherlock didn’t protest but narrowed his eyes again.

"What happened to your cheek?" he asked and for the first time sounded like the ever-observing detective that he normally was.

"John’s hand," Mycroft replied calmly.

Sherlock simply stared for a few seconds, then started chuckling. The chuckle quickly grew into outright, uncontrolled laughter – something Mycroft hadn’t heard coming from his brother’s mouth since childhood - until Sherlock sank back into the pillow.

"Don’t know why that’s so funny," he said eventually, clearly out of breath. "Everything is so _odd_ right now."

"I am fairly sure it wouldn’t have been so funny had _you_ been on the receiving end," Mycroft interjected.

"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked, still smiling.

"What I _mean_ , Sherlock, is that John would have hit _you_ had you been in any state to realise just _why_ you deserve to be slapped."

The grin on Sherlock’s face slowly died. Mycroft got the feeling that for the first time, the repercussions of what he had done and told John were crossing Sherlock’s mind. The sedatives seemed to have worn off enough for him to reclaim at least some common sense.

Mycroft decided that he should probably tell his brother about his plans for him _before_ he would be able to argue properly once more. He removed his hand from his brother’s leg, sensing that it wouldn’t be welcome any more after his next statement.

"John is angry and rightly so. I did tell you in advance that he wouldn’t be happy about you deceiving him like this. You _do_ at least understand that returning to Baker Street right now would be a bad idea, yes?"

Sherlock, head still on the pillow, suddenly refused to meet his gaze and instead, stared up at the ceiling.

"I can explain," he said. "I can explain and he’ll understand. It will be fine."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows.

"That’s nonsense and you know it. You weren’t and aren’t out of it enough not to understand that John is furious. Furious enough to _hit_ me, one might add. You know perfectly well that he usually doesn’t stoop to using violence unless it is absolutely necessary and unavoidable."

Sitting up once more, Sherlock moved his eyes again in order to be able to glare at Mycroft. Finally, he was starting to guard his face again, hiding the concern about the situation and other emotions that had been much more obvious a few minutes earlier behind a mask of confidence.

His free hand had moved to remove the needle in his arm and he succeeded before Mycroft could stop him. Sherlock didn’t even flinch when blood welled up around the puncture wound.

"I am going after him and I’ll explain," he said instead. "He’ll be fine. He was just a bit… emotional. I had just woken up, after all. I am sure he’s going to be more rational once he has made his way home."

Mycroft would have laughed at him had he not been above such things unless it was part of manipulating somebody.

"Do you _actually_ believe that? If so, you are far more socially inept than I have ever believed you to be, my dear brother. Besides, you can’t get up yet. You’ll need at least another half hour to get enough of these chemicals out of your system to function properly."

Sherlock pushed the blanket away, obviously determined to prove his brother wrong. He turned on the bed, long legs brushing Mycroft’s as he shifted so that Sherlock, too, was sitting on the edge of the bed. He curled his hands into the mattress for support as he pushed himself up.

As soon as he was standing, his knees gave in. Mycroft, having anticipated this, was quick to catch him and guide him back into a sitting position while he himself came to stand.

"You’re in no state to go anywhere," he argued. "You’ll rest some more and _then_ , you’ll come with _me_. You’re to stay at my house until this unfortunate situation is completely resolved."

Sherlock let out another laugh. This time, it was short and mirthless. Clearly, Sherlock was successfully fighting the sedatives’ remaining mental effects.

"Never," he stated. "You can’t make me."

Mycroft looked at him.

"Watch me," he threatened.

He would prefer Sherlock coming along willingly, but as a last resort Mycroft wasn’t above another sedative shot or calling in some of his people to make his brother comply.

Mycroft was absolutely sure that what John needed right now was some distance before Sherlock would be able to achieve anything by talking and explaining. Besides, Sherlock realising that he had actually made a mistake was absolutely essential. Otherwise, any conversation between Sherlock and John would only end in yet another disaster.

Sherlock and John resuming their friendship as soon as possible was very much in Mycroft’s interest, but fixing their relationship would take more than a quick and half-hearted talk.

"You're a bastard" Sherlock sneered, probably realising that Mycroft was perfectly serious about forcing him into compliance.

"I am not the one who played with his best friend’s feelings by making him believe that I was in an actual coma, slowly wasting away. I am not the one who made John sit on a hospital chair for a week, causing him to lose considerable amounts of both sleep and weight over a fake ailment."

That hit home. Sherlock flinched and his hands once more curled into the mattress. Unmistakably, Mycroft’s earlier words in combination with John’s reaction had at least made some kind of impact on him.

"Shut up," Sherlock snapped, clearly irritated.

Mycroft did. After all, there was nothing else to say.

It took another half hour until Sherlock was able to support himself without help. By then, Mycroft’s assistant had arrived with a set of clothes for Sherlock. He dressed himself independently, if a bit slowly and eventually followed Mycroft into the car in angry silence.

Once they arrived at Mycroft’s house, Sherlock disappeared into the room he undoubtedly knew to be the guest room. After all, he had stayed there before. Mycroft didn’t need to listen to know that his brother had locked himself in as soon as the door was closed.

 _Very well_ , Mycroft thought. He had other things to focus on anyway, and a bit of time to think everything over would probably be good for Sherlock. He had surely realised by now that he had hurt John. Or at least, Mycroft hoped that he had read his brother correctly.

Mentally pushing the whole affair aside as much as possible, Mycroft sought out his study to pore over some very much neglected files. As for now, he had done everything he could.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock felt slightly helpless and it angered him to no end.

Locked into the horribly tasteful guest room in Mycroft's home, Sherlock leaned against the door from the inside, taking deep breaths. He was still feeling a tad dizzy due to the sedatives, and quickly storming off upstairs and into this room had not been so good for his probably way-too-low blood pressure either.

He moved to sit down on the bed – perfectly crisp bed sheets, of course, bedspreads matching the curtains and pillows in colour – and waited until the irritating dizziness had passed. Once he could think straight again, Sherlock patted down his trousers.

No mobile phone. _Of course._

Mycroft hadn't said, but Sherlock was fairly sure his brother would not appreciate Sherlock leaving the house until he was fully convinced that Sherlock living on Baker Street was an option again. Knowing Mycroft, the man had probably stationed a pair of watchdogs at the entrance door to ensure Sherlock didn't _escape_.

Which was why Sherlock had decided to lock himself in – if he couldn't go out then at least, Mycroft also shouldn't get in. Not so easily, at least.

But no phone? How was he supposed to talk to John and explain the whole thing without it?

Looking around, Sherlock spotted a medium-sized, black travelling bag in the corner. Getting up more carefully this time, Sherlock went to pick it up and placed it on the bed. Swiftly opening the zips, Sherlock spotted several sets of clothing, a few of his books and other personal belongings.

Mycroft planned to keep him here for at least a week, then. Undoubtedly, Sherlock would find toiletries in the en-suite bathroom as well.

One week of living with Mycroft with no means of communication? Sherlock wondered if jumping out of the window was actually an option.

Feeling even more irritated than before, Sherlock nearly overlooked the gleaming plastic in one of the small side pockets of the travelling bag: his phone, after all.

 _Thank God_.

Mycroft didn't mean to stop him from communicating with the outside world, then.

Immensely relieved, Sherlock immediately picked it up. It was fully charged and didn't seem to have been tampered with – though one could never be quite sure where Mycroft was involved. There was a missed call on the screen as well as an unread text message. Both from John, dated about a week ago, shortly after Sherlock's _accident_.

Sherlock's throat suddenly felt tighter than usual. Swallowing against the unwelcome lump, Sherlock pressed _Read_.

  
 **From:** John Watson  
 **Subject:** Hi  
Do you think you could pick up some  
bread from the supermarket? Please?  
There isn't one edible thing in the  
flat.  
All the food is mouldy or otherwise  
contaminated and I blame you. Just  
bread, Sherlock. I'm not asking for  
a miracle here!  


It was such an ordinary text message that Sherlock almost laughed at it. This was John before he had run off and slapped Mycroft. This was John before he had sat by Sherlock's side and–

Determined to avoid thinking about just what Mycroft had told him about John's state over the last week, Sherlock thumbed through his phone's menu, aiming for the contact list.

John and he needed to talk. Properly, that was.

Sherlock hadn't been in any state to think rationally when he had woken up. He could remember it all, most of it quite vividly. He had just felt so careless and light-headed, babbling on and on in a manner he usually would never stoop to, especially not in the presence of somebody else.

But back there, John had looked so tired, so _worried_ , and telling him about the plan had seemed only right and natural. Now, of course, Sherlock could see how terribly stupid it had been.

Sherlock had, of course, known that John would be upset about Sherlock's supposed coma. He had to be for Sherlock's plan to work. And it _had_ worked. The murderer had been fooled and walked right into Sherlock's – and ultimately, Scotland Yard's – trap.

But now that he was awake and well, it couldn't be _that_ big of a deal, could it? Surely, John would understand, if only Sherlock could explain. John had _always_ understood so far. He hadn't always been happy with Sherlock's methods, but he _had_ understood and sooner or later gone along with Sherlock's plans.

The phone call didn't work, though. The line was dead.

Sherlock checked the number twice, but it was the right one, down to the last numeral. Narrowing his eyes in suspicion, Sherlock tried phoning John again. And again.

Nothing, though. No ringing, no dialling tone, _nothing_.

Once again, fresh anger bubbled up in Sherlock's chest. So Mycroft _had_ tampered with the phone after all, the _bastard_. How dare he!

Wasn't _he_ the one that wanted Sherlock to make amends? Why block John's number when he wanted Sherlock to talk to John?

Gnashing his teeth, Sherlock glared at the closed door, contemplating whether the opportunity of shouting at his brother was worth getting up and going downstairs.

It wasn't. Sherlock simply had to outsmart his brother, which couldn't be _that_ difficult, could it?

John's number was blocked, _fine_ , but Sherlock knew enough people John was friends or at least acquainted with. The most obvious choice was Mrs Hudson's landline, of course.

The number didn't turn out to be blocked – it simply rang out.

Scowling, Sherlock harshly pressed some more buttons, searching for DI Lestrade's number. Maybe he could ask the man to tell John to phone Sherlock from a phone that wasn't his mobile and hence shouldn't be blocked.

Pressing his phone to his ear once more, Sherlock silently pleaded for Lestrade to pick up. And pick up he did.

"Hello? _Sherlock?_ Is that you?"

Lestrade sounded confused, disbelieving even.

"Who else?" Sherlock scoffed, before realising his mistake.

Stupid. _Stupid!_ Lestrade didn't know that Sherlock was awake again, of course not. Lestrade still thought Sherlock was in a coma, wasting away in the hospital.

Sherlock sincerely hoped the sedatives hadn't done any long-lasting damage to his brain. How had he overlooked such an obvious, obvious thing?

"You're awake!" Lestrade exclaimed, voice filled with equal parts relief and wonder. "That's– Sherlock, we were so _worried_."

"Yes, all right," Sherlock replied, wanting to get to the point as quickly as possible. "Could you do me a favour and contact John?"

"I– _John?_ Why? Doesn't he know yet? He hasn't left your side in God knows how long, how can he not– "

"He knows, Lestrade, of course he does. He just isn't with me at the moment and I _need_ to talk to him. As soon as possible, if you please."

However, instead of simply _doing what he was supposed to do_ , Lestrade continued with his inane questioning, clearly dedicated to try the last bit of Sherlock's patience.

"I don't understand. Where did he go? I didn't think he'd leave you now that you're awake? Where are you, at the hospital?"

Groaning, Sherlock launched into a hurried explanation, hoping that it would satisfy Lestrade's irritating curiosity, enough that he'd do what Sherlock wanted him to.

"I'm at my brother's right now. John was with me when I woke up, but there was a bit of a misunderstanding and he's run off. I can't reach him on his mobile phone but I really, _really_ need to talk to him so _please_ , Lestrade, could you for once make yourself useful and contact him for me?"

Leave it to Lestrade to latch onto the _one thing_ Sherlock didn't want to elaborate on.

"A misunderstanding?" he repeated. "Sherlock, what in God's name _have you done_?"

Feeling that he wouldn't get anywhere without telling the DI the whole story, Sherlock closed his eyes, rubbing his free hand over the bridge of his nose.

"I might have faked my comatose state in order to make it possible for you to catch the murderer. Congratulations, by the way, for doing your job for once."

"You– You _faked_ …"

For a moment, there was an eerie silence on the other side of the line, as if the call had disconnected. Then, all hell broke loose.

"Sherlock Holmes," Lestrade barked and Sherlock actually flinched at the volume. "You are _despicable_. Do you even– Do you–"

There was a loud noise which, Sherlock deduced, was caused by Lestrade kicking something over, probably the rubbish bin next to his desk. It would fit the clattering sound of it, at least.

"You," the inspector eventually continued, "are a miserable, miserable bastard, Sherlock. How could you do that to John? I thought you were his friend?"

"I am his friend," Sherlock replied, surprised at how quiet his voice suddenly sounded.

"You bloody well aren't! If you were his friend you would have _told_ him! Do you know how worried he was? He was scared for your life, Sherlock! He hasn't eaten well, hasn't slept enough, last time I saw him he was a bloody mess. Of _course_ he doesn't answer his bloody phone! I wouldn't blame him if he never wanted to speak to you again!"

Inexplicably, Sherlock's breath caught at the last statement.

"Really?" he said, nearly choking on the word.

"Yes, _really_ , Sherlock. Not genius enough to figure that out, huh? And no, I _won't_ help you. It's probably just as well you're with your brother. Don't you _dare_ come and pester John today. Or tomorrow. Or ever, really."

Suddenly feeling sick, Sherlock curled his free hand into the bed sheets while tightening his grip on the phone with the other, feeling the need to hang on to something.

"But I _need_ to talk to him. I can _explain–_ "

Lestrade, however, wasn't having any of it.

"Explain? What in hell is there to explain? You've deceived him. All of us! You don't need to do _anything_ unless it is begging for forgiveness. Look–"

Finally, Lestrade paused, clearly trying to calm himself with deep breaths. Sherlock swallowed audibly, fighting against the sick feeling in his stomach, waiting.

"Look," Lestrade eventually repeated, sounding less infuriated and more resigned. "I'll go talk to him tonight, see how he is doing, okay? I _won't_ tell him to phone you, but I _can_ tell him that you want to talk. Don't expect anything though. If I were him I'd _hate_ you right now. Maybe I do, too, I'm not quite sure. Fuck, Sherlock– faking a _coma_? Seriously, that's just…"

Clearly lost for any more words, Lestrade fell silent.

And finally, Sherlock understood, _really_ understood. If Lestrade was this angry already, if Lestrade was this repulsed by his actions, John had to be… had to be…

"Yes," Sherlock said, voice sounding dead even to his own ears. "That's an abhorrent thing to do."

He hung up, letting the phone fall onto the mattress as he stared right ahead. His head was spinning with all the new information and his stomach was cramping, sending hot, uncomfortable tingles up to his chest.

John wasn't just _angry_. John _hated_ him. John who was– was–

 _Your best friend_ , a small but merciless voice told him. _Your_ only _friend._

Thoroughly disgusted with himself, Sherlock curled up on the bed, staring straight ahead at Mycroft's horribly classy curtains.


	8. Chapter 8

John didn't know how long he had been walking through London until he found himself back in front of the door at 221B, feeling completely drained and exhausted. For all he knew, it could have been hours of roaming.

At some point, his leg had started to cramp up again, making it difficult to move. It hadn't hurt this bad since before he met Sherlock at Bart's, before he had started to go on cases with him.

John tensed almost unconsciously. He shouldn't be thinking about Sherlock right now.

But how could he not, when the feeling of betrayal and anger was still burning inside of him, coiling in his stomach, making him want to throw up? John could almost taste the bile on his tongue.

Breathing heavily, John fought his way up the stairs and into the flat. Mrs Hudson didn't seem to be home, which was just as well. John did not feel like breaking the news to her, didn't think he would be able to answer the inevitably arising questions.

Mrs Hudson, too, had been very worried about Sherlock. John was fairly sure she thought of Sherlock as a dear son or nephew, and even though she had clearly been focused on cheering John up when she had visited the hospital, John had seen the worried look edged on her face when she had thought that he hadn't been looking.

John wondered if she would be as angry as he was or if she would, just like always, simply accept that this was the way Sherlock _worked_.

It was what John usually did. When he was angry with Sherlock, when the man did something unacceptable, it helped John to remind himself that Sherlock was simply different; that in his head, different rules were overriding what other people would call common sense.

Really – faking a coma to solve a case seemed quite harmless compared to other things Sherlock had done and would be willing to do, like seeking out madmen at midnight or taking poisonous pills just for fun. To him, it had probably been the most logical strategy to use for this case: fake a coma, catch the killer.

Still. It wasn't really the method that angered John, not really. After all, it was Sherlock's decision what he did with his body in order to solve a case. Choosing to be sedated for a week was probably not anymore harmful or careless than avoiding eating or sleeping during a case.

No, that Sherlock had chosen this of all paths wasn't what angered John, wasn't what made him feel like somebody was poking a branding iron into his intestines.

It was that Sherlock hadn't _told_ him, that Sherlock had left him to worry and grieve beside his bed, day after day.

Oh, there was probably some perfectly _logical_ explanation for that, no doubt. John wasn't that stupid, no matter what Sherlock liked to think, and the doctor could practically hear Sherlock's overbearing and belittling tone as he gave his explanations.

 _Really John, of course I couldn't have told you! What if the murderer had seen you unconcerned about my state? What if somehow word had come out that I wasn't actually in a coma, hm? No, no, this was the only way it could have happened. Now, stop bothering me with your tedious little emotions._

 __Clenching his fists, John kicked the door to their shared flat shut with his good leg. Suddenly unbalanced as his bad leg gave in under his weight, John had to hold on to the wall to keep himself upright.

It only angered him further, this helplessness and _his bloody leg_. John felt like trashing something, felt like smashing everybody and everything to bits and pieces.

Slapping Mycroft had certainly been satisfying in a way, but not nearly enough. Because deep down, John knew that it wasn't really Mycroft's fault, even though he _had_ helped Sherlock with the farce.

Hurting Mycroft had only been a way to get out some of the tension and anger he had felt upon realising just what Sherlock had done. It wasn't nearly enough.

Panting, John started walking again, using the wall and furniture as means to hold himself up until he reached the kitchen.

There: the cluttered table, surface covered in petri dishes and microscope slides, not leaving a sole space for John to eat or work on.

And just like that, John lost it.

Like a maniac, like a complete madman, John leaped forward, grabbed whatever he could get his hands on and, with an almost inhuman growl, flung the equipment against the nearest wall. And it felt _good_ , hearing the glass dishes break due to the impact, listening to the shards and bits raining down onto the kitchen floor.

He continued his rampage in blind fury, grabbing and flinging whatever was within his grasp, not even holding back when his fingers finally curled around Sherlock's microscope. Had John had one bit of rationality left, he probably wouldn't have thrown an expensive instrument like that against the wall. But the heavy thunk sounding through the kitchen when the sturdy instrument crashed into the wall, denting it slightly, was completely worth it.

John watched the remains scatter around, bits and pieces rolling over the floor.

Breathing heavily, chest rising and falling rapidly, John finally looked around the kitchen, covered in bits of glass and metal. It looked like a battlefield.

And just like that, all the sudden, raw energy, fuelled by his anger and the feeling of betrayal, vanished, leaving him empty.

With a small whimper, John sank down on the nearest chair and hid his face in his hands.

He didn't know how long he just sat there, in between the mess of shards and splinters, doing nothing but breathing. His mind had gone strangely numb, as if his head had been filled with cotton wool.

He only noticed his surroundings again when the sound of steady footfalls slowly became louder and bits of glass scrunched under a pair of heavy feet.

" _Christ_ , what has– John?"

Hands falling from his face, John squinted up. Without really noticing it, the flat had been engulfed by darkness. Outside the windows, John could see the shine of the street lamps. The artifical light illuminated the person standing in the kitchen, outlining the familiar form of one DI Lestrade.

The man was now moving around, hand sliding over the wall nearby until he found the light switch.

John blinked against the sudden brightness as the kitchen lamp was turned on.

"Oh wow," Lestrade breathed, looking around and taking in the mess John had made. His face looked just as tired and exhausted as John was feeling. "He did a right number on you, didn't he?"

Smiling faintly, John tried to get up, glass crunching under his feet.

"No, no, sit down. Oh my god, are you _bleeding_?"

Confused, John halted, blinked and looked down at his hands. Surprised, he noticed that there were several cuts on his hands and arms, no doubt from where had accidently touched sharp edges and shards in his burst of destructive fury. Most of them were already closed and covered in fresh scab.

"Shallow cuts, I think," he murmured, voice unusually gruff.

Lestrade sighed, walking over to where John was sitting, careful to avoid the worst of the mess on the floor.

"Let's get you cleaned up. A bit of disinfectant is probably called for, right, Doctor? Who knows what kind of flesh-eating bacteria were crawling on some of these dishes…"

John didn't put up a fight, but let Lestrade lead him into the bathroom, one steady arm around his shoulder when the DI noticed that John was limping again. He didn't comment on it, however, which John was incredibly thankful for.

He sat down on the edge of the bathtub, tiredly telling Lestrade where to find plasters and the antiseptic agent. Calmly, Lestrade nursed the cuts, clicking his tongue in quiet disapproval when he had to remove a small piece of glass that had somehow found its way into John's forearm.

Once he was done, he sank down next to John, shoulder brushing lightly against John's.

"That bad?" he asked quietly.

John nodded mutely.

For a few minutes, the bathroom was filled with heavy silence.

"Do you want to go out for a pint?" Lestrade eventually asked. "You can tell me all about it, if you want to." He paused briefly. "Or we can just sit, drink and be quiet, if you'd rather not."

That did indeed sound good.

Half an hour later, John and Lestrade were occupying a table in the back of a warm little pub relatively close to Baker Street. John was nursing his ale and staring at some point past Lestrade's shoulder to avoid his questioning gaze.

"I think I hate him right now," he finally said and sought out Lestrade's eyes.

The man met his gaze warmly, understanding evident on his face.

"I do, too, a bit," he admitted. "We were _all_ worried. Even Donovan asked how he was doing when I came back from hospital." He cocked his head a bit, eying John up. "Though I think you're off worst. Quite frankly, you look like shit. Even worse than at the hospital."

John laughed humourlessly.

"Yes, well," he said, pausing briefly to gulp down some of his ale. Liquid courage. "I thought he was dying, you know? His brother was holding back all the information, I didn't know a thing about his state beyond what I could see with my own eyes – not very reliable as it turns out. Didn't help that Mycroft gave me the feeling that I wasn't worth anything as a doctor."

He paused again, collecting his thoughts. He hadn't eaten much today and the alcohol was making him a bit dizzy.

"But the worst thing is that I already know I'll forgive him. He'll be back, he'll talk to me and in no time, he'll have me convinced that I'm just being an idiot. I bet you'll see me running after him on one of your crime scenes in less than two weeks." No longer able to look at Lestrade, John averted his gaze, eyes now fixed on the resurrected cane leaning against his chair. "It's not healthy to be this dependant on another person. Pathetic, really."

"It's not pathetic," Lestrade immediately argued, voice calm and a tad soothing. "Sherlock isn't just anybody. He soaks up all of your attention, like a sponge. I understand, believe me. He's fascinating and way too brilliant–"

"And a right bastard," John interrupted.

Lestrade chuckled.

"Yes, that, too. But after all these years, I'm still letting him walk all over my crime scenes, am I not? I shouldn't, I know. I'm constantly in trouble because of him. But I can't _not_ do it, because he's bloody Sherlock Holmes. I need him. And he knows it, too."

Nodding, John took another sip, letting the alcohol take away some of the sting. At least, he wasn't completely alone in his co-dependent misery.

"But," Lestrade eventually murmured, "it's different with you. You might think you need him but at the end of the day, it's Sherlock who needs _you_."

John stared at him.

"He doesn't need me," he objected, but Lestrade was shaking his head.

"Of course he does. You didn't see him before you showed up. He was brilliant and working, yes, but he wasn't happy, not really. He didn't have a single friend, told himself he didn't _need_ any. And then, you came around! You showed him what if feels like to have somebody around who accepts him, somebody he can trust. And he cares about you, you know? After the thing at the pool – you didn't see the look on his face when they wheeled you off and he couldn't be sure that it wasn't more than a mere concussion. He was freaked and worried, nearly panicked really. I have _never_ seen him look like that."

John took all the information in, feeling slightly awed by Lestrade's little speech. In the end, though, bitterness over the most recent incident overwhelmed him again.

"Well, a right sick way to show that he cares for me, faking a bloody coma without telling me."

Lestrade smiled, if a bit sadly.

"He phoned me, you know?" he said.

John narrowed his eyes suspiciously, alcohol starting to cloud his judgement.

"Phoned you? Why? Did _he_ send you here?"

"No," Lestrade hurried to assure him. "No, I came here on my own accord. He did want me to tell you to phone him, but I am not going to do that. You shouldn't, that's what I think, not right now. Serves him right to be ignored, after what he's done to you."

He stopped, clearly thinking about his next words. Unconsciously, John picked at a plaster covering part of his left thumb, feeling anxious for no reason.

"But you _should_ know he cares. I'm not sure he completely understands, but maybe, when you've both had a bit of time to think, you could talk. You can _make_ him understand, he listens to you. Sometimes, at least. And he's smart enough to realise that what he's done was absolutely repulsive."

John looked down at his drink again.

"Did he say that?" he asked quietly and inwardly cringed at his hopeful tone.

"He did. Took him a while, granted, but he got there, after a bit of shouting."

John nodded, tracing the edge of the glass in front of him with his forefinger.

"Where is he?" he asked eventually.

"With his brother. He says he can't reach your mobile. If you want to talk, you need to call him yourself."

"I'm not ready to do that yet," John admitted with a sigh. "I'd probably just shout at him. And throw things at him, should he show up in the flat. Preferably that stupid skull of his."

Lestrade laughed and shifted in his seat, clearly getting more comfortable.

"I know," he said and lifted his own drink. "And that's why I'm here. Drink up, I'll order another round."


	9. Chapter 9

The report arrived a bit later in the evening.

Mycroft, who had decided to do a bit of working frome home for the next few days in order to be able to keep an eye on Sherlock, gave his assistant a thankful nod before accepting the freshly-printed papers - they still smelled of ink.

Contrary to what Sherlock believed, Mycroft had not installed listening devices all over the Baker Street flat. He did have some respect for his brother's privacy.

However, he _had_ installed a tiny camera in the kitchen. He knew what kinds of volatile experiments Sherlock could think up when he was properly bored and having an eye on him ensured that somebody would call for an ambulance as soon as it looked like Sherlock had carried things too far. The footage was immediately deleted when nothing of importance happened.

Reading the report, Mycroft smirked. So John had found another thing to project his anger on.

Rubbing a thoughtful thumb over his own, still slightly tender cheek, Mycroft quickly calculated the damage in his head. Undoubtedly, John would feel guilty in the morning and try to replace as much of the things by himself as possible. Mycroft, however, knew about the man's current bank balance - just to be on the safe side, of course - and Sherlock's professional microscope by itself would eat up most of his funds.

Sighing, Mycroft reached out for his phone to make some calls. Why were so many of Sherlock's antics so expensive? Yes, John had been the one to throw half a laboratory against a wall this time, but he couldn't really blame the poor doctor when Sherlock had been the one to put him in a state of rage in the first place. At least, Mycroft knew several people who owed him some favours.

Once he had taken care of that, Mycroft decided to call it a night, locked away some of the more important files, and went upstairs to shower and change. As he passed the guest room, he couldn't help himself but stop and listen. His brother had been oddly quiet up until now.

At the moment, there wasn't a single noise coming from Sherlock's room either.

It wasn't that Mycroft had expected a tantrum, especially as he had given Sherlock access to his mobile, but at least some kind of shouting once he realised that John's number was blocked? He knew he had tried, Mycroft had told his people to check up on that. But Sherlock had also called DI Lestrade, no doubt to find some way around the call blocking. As if Mycroft wouldn't know how to prevent that as well. All in-coming calls were being screened and besides, Mycroft was very sure John would not be calling Sherlock any time soon, at least not voluntarily.

Had the DI said something to make Sherlock this quiet? Hopefully he had given Sherlock a bit of a harangue.

Deciding that trying to talk to Sherlock anytime soon would only end in hateful glares and possibly another tender cheek, Mycroft made a mental note to remember that he'd have to make his brother eat something tomorrow. His body was still weakened by a week of drug-induced slumber, after all.

To say that he was surprised to meet Sherlock in the kitchen early the next morning was probably an understatement. He honestly hadn't expected his brother to leave the room at all, but there he was, sitting on of the stools by the kitchen island.

Giving him a once-over, Mycroft carefully poured himself some coffee, which was hot and ready, thanks to the installed timer.

Sherlock didn't seem to have slept or changed his clothes and his hair was extremely messy. His usually smooth skin was oddly stubbly, now that there wasn't a nurse coming by to shave him on a daily basis. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up, exposing the bruised skin where the infusion needle had been inserted. His slender hands were curled around a cup of tea that was already cold and only half-empty, and his eyes were all but glued to a white spot of wall somewhere above the sink.

"Good morning, Sherlock," Mycroft said calmly as he added some milk to his coffee.

The reply he was given was almost toneless and Sherlock's eyes didn't move an inch.

"I haven't seen you in pyjamas since I was twelve years old."

Unfazed by this, Mycroft briefly glanced down at himself, eying his soft grey pyjama bottoms and clean, white T-shirt before taking a sip of his perfectly brewed coffee. Exactly what he needed in the morning, especially one that included dealing with a moody Sherlock.

"Did you think I'd sleep in my suits?" he replied pleasantly.

Given the way Sherlock's right eyebrow twitched minimally, he _had_ thought that, in a way at least. It always eased the uncomfortable sting over Sherlock's outside hatred when there was proof like this that very deep down, Sherlock still had a tiny bit of hero-worship and awe for his older brother left. It felt - _good_.

"Don't be ridiculous."

Sherlock's voice was still oddly flat and Mycroft wondered why that was. Had he finally realised that what he had done had been awful, at least for John? Probably. It was one of the few explanations that made sense.

"What did the DI say to you?" Mycroft asked.

That, at last, seemed to shake his brother out of his rigidity. His eyes snapped from where he had stared at the wall towards Mycroft and narrowed immediately.

"You're a controlling bastard," he spat.

"I'm your controlling _brother_ , Sherlock, and I only want what's best for you, you know that. Did he change your mind about phoning John to do that so-called explaining of yours? If so, I might have to think about thanking the man. He'd surely benefit from a pay rise."

For a moment, Sherlock looked like he wanted to throw his tea mug at Mycroft. Then, however, he visibly deflated and whatever signs of anger had been there disappeared again, making room for defeat and resignation.

Looking down at the cold tea, he tightened his hold on the ceramic and bit his lip ever so slightly. About to ask a favour from Mycroft then, and ready to beg if he declined. That hadn't happened in a very long time. Usually, Sherlock would ask for Mycroft's help with an air of confidence and self-assurance, very much like he had asked for his assistance in the coma scheme.

This was different, however. Sherlock expected to be refused and was willing to resort to pleading. Mycroft tensed ever so slightly and sipped some coffee to hide his anticipation.

"Can you tell me..." Sherlock paused. His voice had gone uncharacteristically quiet. "How is he? I'm sure you know."

Biting back a smile, Mycroft shifted. He didn't quite dare to join Sherlock at the island, but turned so he fully faced his brother, wanting him to know that he had his full attention. He knew that Sherlock wasn't talking about Lestrade.

"Angry, mostly," Mycroft told him and watched Sherlock's fingers relax ever so slightly when he realised that Mycroft wouldn't make him beg. "A fair bit disappointed, to be sure. And, right now, probably suffering from a severe hangover."

Mycroft watched his brother think rapidly, could see him briefly worry about John ending up like his alcoholic sister before dismissing that thought, remembering John's character and usual behaviour. That he had considered it at all, however, was a sign that Sherlock _was_ upset about what had happened and, of course, that he cared. Which was very reassuring.

"Did Lestrade take him or did he just need to get away from the flat?" he eventually asked, having come to the right conclusion.

"The DI was with him. I made sure that they both returned home safely."

Sherlock nodded.

"Good," he whispered, though Mycroft had the feeling he hadn't meant to say that out loud, so he acted as if he hadn't heard his brother for once approving of Mycroft's surveillance.

They spent a few minutes in silence, Mycroft drinking his coffee, Sherlock trying his hardest not to ask another question. In the end, he couldn't help himself.

"When can I talk to him?" he asked, this time purposely seeking out Mycroft's gaze.

Mycroft gave him a soft smile in return. It was quite clear now that Sherlock had acknowledged to himself that he had made a mistake. If things were different, if they were still children and Sherlock still showed his love unconditionally, he might have gone and ruffled his brother's hair reassuringly.

"That's John's decision entirely. I'll make sure to tell you when he's ready."

Knowing the doctor, John would be angry at Sherlock for two more days before falling into a short stage of remorse where he'd simply have him back without ever talking the incident over. As far as Mycroft was concerned, he'd let his brother talk to him afterwards, once John was reasonable enough to expect at least an apology. How would Sherlock learn anything from this whole mess if John didn't insist on Sherlock voicing his regret over his actions?

Finally, Sherlock rightened himself and when he spoke, his voice was once more confident.

"What am I supposed to do here, then? You honestly can't expect me to simply sit around and wait."

To anybody else, the words would have seemed perfectly in-character. Sherlock Holmes, the arrogant genius, back in place. Mycroft, however, knew his brother like nobody else did. He knew Sherlock was asking for something to take his mind of the matter, to keep him from worrying too much.

Lucky for him that Mycroft had anticipated just that.

"I have a few cases for you to look over. A handful of bribable employers, some blackmail and an information leak in one of the departments. I'm sure I could manage, but right now, I'm way too busy to take care of it."

He wasn't, really. He knew, after all, much more about the matter than his brother and could solve those problems in the blink of an eye if he set his mind to it. Sherlock, however, did need something to do. Mycroft was only too happy to get rid of some nasty work and simultaneously help his brother out. He'd give Sherlock boxes over boxes of files to sort through, which would definitely keep him occupied.

"If I must," Sherlock said in an exasperated tone and got up, abandoning his cold tea in favour of going back upstairs, undoubtedly to take a shower and change his clothes.

Mycroft, however, once more smiled into his coffee, understanding perfectly what his brother was actually saying:

 _Thank you._


	10. Chapter 10

It had to be the longest week Sherlock had ever had to live through.

Mycroft's cases were hard work, but not particularly challenging or interesting - no bodies, no murderer, just dull paperwork. It also didn't help that his brother constantly made him eat.

"You're not on an actual case and you have ample time for these," he had said when Sherlock told him he couldn't think properly with a full stomach. "I'm sure you can deal with at least a few hundred calories digesting in your stomach without deteriorating to the IQ level of a mole. You _need_ your strength."

So he grudgingly had given in and eaten. The food around Mycroft was always excellent, at least, no doubt why he had always struggled with his weight (though, Sherlock had to admit, Mycroft hadn't been truly overweight in a long time) and a teeny-tiny part of Sherlock also felt he owed his brother the favour, if only for keeping him occupied. Sherlock also hadn't missed the very obvious fact that Mycroft hadn't left the house ever since Sherlock had moved in and was working from home at the moment.

Besides, dealing with Mycroft and his paper work was at least way better than sitting in the guest room all day, with nothing but his mobile and a bit of reading to occupy himself with. Being bored would lead Sherlock to think about what had happened and might happen.

Sherlock didn't want to think about that constantly.

It was already bad enough when he had to try and sleep (Mycroft insisted on three hours daily, the sod) or eat. All he would think about was John, John, _John_. How angry he was, what he might say and do, what he might look like.

Was he still eating badly? Was he still unable to sleep properly?

When Sherlock had met John for the first time, he had been a lot thinner and had looked overly tired and strained. Living with Sherlock had been exhausting for him as well, but he had eaten more often and slept well enough in the nights he wasn't out and about chasing criminals. Whenever he imagined that other, worn-out John sitting by his bed, Sherlock felt quite a bit sick to his stomach.

So he didn't. Or tried not to, anyway.

Sometimes, though, he caught himself rehearsing apologies or going through the possible outcomes of their inevitable conversation. Somewhere in his brain, a _dealing with this whole mess_ -file had been created, that was constantly being filled with theories, assumptions and _what-might-be_ s.

He just wanted the whole thing to be over with. He had an almost physical craving to talk to John, to see him, to make it all better. John was important to him, that much he could admit. John was his best friend, the one that would giggle along on a crime scene and not hesitate to shoot or fight in order to keep Sherlock and anybody else safe. John who whined and complained about body parts, but never binned a single experiment before making sure Sherlock was fine with it.

Losing John over this simply was _not_ an option.

So, every morning, Mycroft would meet Sherlock in the kitchen to drink his coffee, and every morning, Mycroft would tell him that no, John had not tried to contact him yet.

Usually, Sherlock would be suspicious, would doubt that Mycroft was telling him the truth. But there was nothing Mycroft could gain from that, unless having Sherlock around was more important to him than Sherlock and John reconciling. Sherlock knew Mycroft didn't feel that way. Mycroft had told him from the very beginning that this would be a bad idea. And Mycroft _liked_ John, respected him even. Sherlock hadn't missed the relief on his brother's features when, after the pool incident, John hadn't left but stayed instead.

Mycroft thought John was good for Sherlock, a person worth keeping around.

And Sherlock had managed to drive that one person away.

By the end of the week, Sherlock thought he might have developed a severe case of a real depression.

Shuffling into Mycroft's kitchen, he almost didn't realise that his brother was wearing his best three-piece suit instead of the trousers and shirts he had worn for the past few days. His hair was perfectly groomed, his shoes shiny. By then, Sherlock had already reached out for the water kettle to make himself some more tea. If he had learned anything from John, it was that tea helped with everything.

Freezing to the spot, the wheels in his mind started reeling. Maybe an emergency Mycroft couldn't deal with from home and that forced him to leave the house? An important appointment that couldn't be postponed? Or...

"Yes, he wants to talk you," Mycroft said with an infuriating little, way too knowing smirk.

"Where? _When?_ " Sherlock urged him at once, setting down the kettle in favour of stepping up to his brother, highly tempted to shake the information out of him as if he were a pepper caster.

"221B Baker Street, this afternoon."

Unable to repress the sigh of utter relief, Sherlock moved until he could lean against the kitchen counter.

The flat was a good sign. Meeting at the flat meant that John didn't need a neutral place for a calm decision and rather craved the familiarity of it. Choosing Baker Street meant that he was, at least theoretically, willing to forgive Sherlock.

Sherlock tried to hide the trembles of excitement in his hands but to no avail. Mycroft's smirk was already widening into a proper little smile.

"John said to meet him at three o'clock. I think I can trust you to stay put until then. Unless you'd like me to lock you in as a precaution?"

"Don't bother," Sherlock told him absent-mindedly, entirely focused on the fact that John, _finally_ , was ready to talk to him.

What to say? What to do? What if John thought Sherlock wasn't sincere? Would John move out or make Sherlock move instead? Mrs Hudson would probably make John a good offer, one he could afford, now that he had a proper job. And Mrs Hudson - was she angry at Sherlock as well? If yes, she surely would choose John over Sherlock and-

A warm hand on his shoulder cut through his train of thought.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said, voice low. God, he was close. Sherlock didn't remember the last time they had stood this closely without shouting or at least glaring at each other. "You know you've made a mistake and you're sorry, we _both_ know that. It's only a matter of making _John_ understand that as well. Remember not to hide your emotions for once. John might be one of the few people in whose presence it is safe and maybe even desirable to do so. He'll listen to you, I'm sure."

Suddenly, Sherlock's throat felt way too tight. One part of him wanted to snap at Mycroft, to tell him to shut up and keep his stupid advice for himself. But for once, Sherlock didn't give in.

"Okay," he whispered instead and Mycroft briefly squeezed his shoulder. For a few moments, Sherlock felt about five years old and entirely safe, just because his big brother was telling him everything would be all right, and he had to stifle an insane urge to hug Mycroft around the middle.

When his brother stepped away, though, the feeling of intimacy was gone and the masks of indifference and the ever-present air of animosity slipped back into place.

"There's food in the refrigerator, if you care to eat some more", Mycroft pointed out, brushing a hand over his dress trousers while picking up his umbrella that was resting by the kitchen door. "You can put the remaining files into my study by the desk. I trust you know how to dress and wash yourself?"

"Go to work and conquer some country" Sherlock told him off harshly and Mycroft gave him a disapproving look, arched eyebrows and all.

Back to normal.

Waiting for the afternoon to come around was even worse than the past week as a whole, as it turned out. With nothing else to do, Sherlock was highly tempted to go against his word and leave the house early. Undoubtedly though, Mycroft would be able to tell and somehow manage to intercept Sherlock's premature departure. Besides, John didn't expect him until much later and might even be angry at Sherlock for not going by the rules he had established.

And if there was one thing Sherlock knew for sure it was that he did not want to anger John any further.

So, after Sherlock had taken a shower, dressed, re-dressed (while going through what he knew about clothing, colours, appearances and their calming effects on other people) and even eaten one of the sandwiches Mycroft had left in the fridge, he was reduced to staring at the clock in Mycroft's study. Even snooping through his brother's things didn't sound very promising, which under any other circumstances would have been the first thing on Sherlock's mind.

All he wanted to do was _talk. to. John._

He wondered if he hadn't gotten too dependent, too attached. But even if that were the case, it was too late now. If anything, this week had proven that Sherlock _was_ attached and would be unable to cut the cords that had been formed between the man and himself.

He was stuck with John Watson.

And that was, to be completely honest with himself, really not the worst thing in the world, was it?

When finally, the clock hands moved, indicating that it was now 3pm, Sherlock jumped up and all but ran out of Mycroft's house. He didn't even have to grab his coat and scarf, as he had put those on around half past one. If he hadn't been so busy with worrying and brimming with anticipation, he might have picked up on how pathetic this behaviour really was.

Of course, his cab would be stuck in the insane London traffic, delaying his perfectly calculated arrival for over twenty-three minutes and four seconds.

Finally approaching the front door of 221B, Sherlock breathed one, last determined breath, biting back his anxiety.

Time to apologise.


	11. Chapter 11

He had expected the hangover, but that didn't make dealing with the aftermath of his personal drinking bout any better.

As a doctor, he regretted the havoc he had wreaked on his own body. As a man who had been out to drink away his sorrow, he merely regretted having failed at getting rid of the uncomfortable pain tugging at his chest by doing so.

Staggering downstairs, one hand clutching his ringing head while the other was pressed flat against the wall, John groaned and sighed several times. He was feeling dizzy and quite ready to throw up, though he hoped that he wouldn't. One reason why the alcohol had affected him this strongly was that there hadn't been anything substantial in his stomach to begin with. John didn't really feel like spending his morning dry heaving.

He needed some tea. Tea was good for calming an upset stomach.

Only when he had already made his way into the living room did he remember that most of the kitchen utensils including the teakettle were probably covered in tiny shards of glass. He groaned at the memories of destroying most of the kitchen the night before and for a moment, didn't dare to look around the corner and face the mess, too embarrassed by his losing control like that.

As a solider, though, it wasn't John's usual course of action not to face the consequences of what he had done. So, slowly but surely, he limped into the kitchen, bracing himself for a picture of utter chaos.

Only to find a perfectly tidy room in its place.

Blinking rapidly, John stared at the perfectly clean kitchen, unable to do anything besides gaping at the clean floor, gleaming table and perfectly smooth and unharmed wall. That was - unexpected. Impossible, really.

He hadn't drunk _that_ much, had he?

Placing a hand over the upper half of his face for a few seconds and thus blocking his view, John took a few calming breaths before letting it drop again.

The kettle innocently twinkled at him from a perfectly clean counter.

 _All right then_. He'd just - not deal with this right now. Maybe, everything would make sense after a nice cup of tea and a few glasses of water to get rid of the worst of the headache.

Once he had successfully brewed and poured himself a cuppa, John carefully sat down on the suspiciously polished kitchen chair, resting his elbows on the definitely newly sandpapered table surface.

There were, really, only two possibilities how the kitchen could be in this state less than 12 hours after John had made the mess.

Number one: Mrs Hudson, being her usual kind self, had come up, seen the mess, and taken care of it. Quickly. Incredibly quickly. And given the furniture a new look as well.

Oh, who was he kidding? Obviously, it was number two: Mycroft.

Groaning, John swallowed some tea and promptly burned his tongue in the process. Cursing, he hurriedly set the cup down again and buried his still throbbing head into his hands, very similar to the position he had held the night before when Lestrade had so unexpectedly shown up.

What _was_ this? Some kind of _kindly forgive my idiot of a brother_ -bribe? Either that or the bill would arrive shortly.

As it turned out, though, Mycroft seemed to have neither thing in mind. About an hour later, a faint chime alerted John, now with less of a headache and more of an awareness for his surroundings, that he had just received a new text message.

  
 **From:** Mycroft Holmes  
 **Subject:** Regarding: kitchen  
As you have noticed, my people  
have taken care of the rather  
unfortunate state of the above  
mentioned room. Laboratory  
equipment will be delivered  
soon.  
I do not blame you in the slightest,  
there's no need to thank me. And  
I must admit that I rather prefer  
you taking your anger out on  
inanimate objects.  
-MH

  
Flushing a bit, John put down the mobile and sighed. He briefly toyed with the idea of sending the man an apology for the slap, but quite frankly, he couldn't find it in himself to feel very remorseful about it. The man had earned that slap, if only for making John feel like the world's most inept doctor. And at least, as far as John was concerned, that had settled the matter as far as Mycroft and _his_ involvement.

Sherlock himself was a whole other story, though.

John spent the next few days tidying and brooding. Tidying, because without Sherlock moving and hiding things, John could finally get some kind of order into their shared living space. Brooding, because doing just that was already an admission that he expected Sherlock to move back in here eventually.

And wasn't that the whole remaining issue? The question was whether John would forgive Sherlock for what he had done.

One part of him wanted to be irreconcilable, wanted to see Sherlock suffer and beg for quite some time, if not forever, for what he had done to John. The last week had been one of the worst in his life, thanks to Sherlock.

The other part, though, the part that wanted to forgive Sherlock almost at once, had only been fueled by Lestrade's report. Sherlock had realised that what he had done was disgusting and, knowing the man and his liability to hyperbole and drama when it came to personal relations (his relationship with Mycroft being the best example for that), Sherlock would be taking the whole thing rather badly.

Besides, as the days passed, John missed the other man's presence more and more. He had gotten used to Sherlock, that much was clear, and now that he wasn't around, the flat seemed oddly lonely and silent. It felt far too much like the days before he and John had been flatmates and, as much as he hated to admit anything of the kind to himself, John longed for the man's company. He needed his best friend with him.

Because that was what they were: _best friends_.

Even after all that had happened, even though the sting of betrayal hadn't eased in the slightest, John could admit that he still thought of Sherlock as just that - his best friend.

Around day four, only utmost self-control kept him from calling Sherlock and telling him that he could come back, if only to get rid of the awful silence that didn't let him sleep at night and not even Mrs Hudson (who had taken the news of Sherlock's latest antics astonishingly well) and her friendly chatter could banish.

But that wasn't what should happen. John knew that Sherlock needed to earn this, that he needed to be honestly sorry and learn to apologise appropriately. Otherwise, it would only happen again and John wasn't sure in how far he could deal with another week of worrying and grieving just because Sherlock had decided to disappear or fake his death for a bit.

So John waited some more. He used the time to meet up with some old friends, fill the fridge with actual food and watch crappy telly without Sherlock's degrading comments. By the end of the week, John was still way too tired, but felt a lot more confident about the whole thing. He was sure that, were he to meet up with Sherlock now, he would neither punch him in the face nor simply tell him to come back.

John was ready to have a talk. Which was what he told Mycroft over the phone that night.

"Are you quite sure?" the man asked him, voice as calm as ever.

"Very sure, Mycroft," John replied firmly. "Send him over tomorrow afternoon, would you? Three o'clock? I'm willing to at least hear him out."

Though, John thought, Mycroft probably knew very well that _hear him out_ translated into _make him squirm a bit, then let him come back if I think he's learned his lesson_.

Still, in spite of his initial confidence, John grew anxious and jumpy as the hours passed. He caught himself pacing the flat, as much as that was possible with a returned limp and a cane, opened and closed the fridge more than once and stared out on the street as if that would make Sherlock appear any faster.

When three o'clock came and went, John was a bundle of highly tetchy nerves, which caused him to drop two tea mugs and snap at Mrs Hudson.

Finally, the noise of an arriving cab caught his attention and, limping toward the window, John watched the slim form of Sherlock Holmes get out and approach the flat. He couldn't see much from here. How was he? Had he become even more skinny or had Mycroft made him eat?

Shaking his head, John straightened his shoulders. He shouldn't concern himself with things like that. Not if he wanted to make this appropriately difficult for Sherlock.

 _He hurt you_ , he thought to himself, carefully making his way towards the door. _He betrayed your trust and made you think he was this close to dying. Don't make this easy for him. He deserves to suffer a bit and you deserve nothing but a sincere apology. And remember what Lestrade said: it is he who needs_ you.

When he finally heard a familiar kind of footfall on the stairs, some of the angry burn he had felt in the hospital had returned to John's throat. Which was just as well, as it would probably help him remain focused on what was important.

A soft knock announced Sherlock's arrival at the upper storey.

Bracing himself, John squared his shoulders and told the man to come in.

His entrance was slow and very quiet. Almost hesitantly, Sherlock entered the flat with small steps, which was highly unusual for him. John knew him to be the person that would enter a room in confidence and soak up everyone's attention at once. Not today, though. What _was_ familiar, however, was that, as soon as it was possible, Sherlock's eyes stared roaming all over John, undoubtedly taking every little detail, including the two dropped tea mugs from earlier.

There was a definite tension in the room after the door fell shut, as if someone had stretched a taut rope in between the two of them. Suddenly, John had to suppress a vehement shaking in his body. His veins felt like ice and fire at the same time and John had to press his teeth together to keep himself from hissing out a sharp breath. Seeing Sherlock seemed to have broken something inside John's chest that had, quickly but badly, closed up over the week. John was _angry_.

Maybe he _hadn't_ been ready for this.

When finally, Sherlock met John's gaze, the latter was ready to burst into a string of questions, curses and accusations all at once.

"You don't need that cane," was the first thing that came out of Sherlock's mouth. "You haven't been injured."

"Well, tell that the pain in my upper thigh," John snapped back, then stopped himself from hurling the damned cane at the very man in front of him.

This had been a bad idea. Clearly, neither of them was ready for this, if Sherlock's closed-up expression and latest statement was anything to go by. He didn't look his usual smug self exactly, but clearly wasn't sorry in the slightest. After all, hurling accusations at the man you should apologise to was not what somebody feeling guilty and rueful should be doing. Not at all.

John was very close to tell Sherlock to get the bloody hell out of the flat when the man spoke up again.

"Did I really hurt you so much that you're _limping_ again?" he half-whispered.

And finally, John saw it - the tremble in Sherlock's bottom lip and the ever-so-slight crease in between his eyebrows. John knew that face, though he had hardly ever seen it on the other man. Sherlock was _upset_. Honestly so.

Tensing, John tightened his grip on his cane, looking for an answer that wasn't _Bloody brilliant deduction, Mr Consulting Detective._

"Don't flatter yourself," was what he settled on, looking away when he was suddenly unable to meet Sherlock's eyes any longer.

"Sorry," Sherlock replied quietly.

"Are you now," John bit back, eyes fixed onto the wall to Sherlock's right. He knew he sounded like a petulant child but right now, it was all he could manage. "I'm intrigued."

"John," Sherlock whispered.

And somehow, that did it. Eyes snapping back, John made an angry step forward before the flaring pain in his leg stopped him from advancing any further.

"Don't you _John_ me, you bastard," he snapped, all the seeping anger of the past week breaking through. "Don't you come here with your big eyes and tell me you didn't expect to see me like this. Don't tell me you didn't know that this is what you did to me with your little _game_." Snarling, John hardly noticed Sherlock's rather violent flinch. "Was it worth it, Sherlock? Was the thrill of catching yet another killer worth making me sit by your bed for a week? Was it worth my sleepless nights? Was it worth my withering self-esteem, yes?"

Feeling like he had said too much, John turned away again, facing the wall to the right. He was breathing heavily, more heavily than he should. Had he been shouting there, by the end?

Not good. Not good at all. This wasn't the proper talk he had imagined. Already, he was out of control.

"Jo-" Sherlock stopped himself, undoubtedly remembering just what had set him off in the first place. Even quieter, he continued. "I- I didn't think. I-"

" _You_ didn't think?" John snapped, turning his head sharply as he was provoked once more. "Don't give me that, Sherlock. Don't _you_ , of all people, give me that. You _thought_ and you _knew_ that I would be upset. I know you, Sherlock Holmes. It was all part of your grand plan. If you've come here to apologise, don't you _dare_ lie to my face while doing so. You _knew_ I'd worry and you did it _anyway_."

John's voice broke embarrassingly at the last word and he stopped, taking deep breaths through his nose, afraid that anything else would result in a highly uncalled-for sob.

For a minute, they stood in total silence, only interrupted by John's harsh breathing. Eventually, he fully turned his back on Sherlock, approaching the nearest armchair, the cane unusually loud against the floor of the living room. He needed something to lean on, something else to support himself with.

"You need to be honest with me," he finally stated, his free arm on the back of the chair. "Completely honest, Sherlock, or this isn't going to work."

Another minute passed in total silence. At some point, John wondered whether Sherlock hadn't simply left, but didn't dare to turn and look, fearing that it was so. The low voice came almost as a relief.

"Yes, I knew," Sherlock was saying. His voice was quiet but perfectly understandable. "I knew you'd be upset and I hoped it'd help convince the murderer that I was out of it, that I hadn't found out about his pattern yet and told the police. He was clever. I was sure he'd know otherwise. So I didn't tell you. Or anyone."

"Only Mycroft," John said, voice flat and a tad hoarse.

"Only Mycroft," Sherlock agreed. "He helped me set the whole thing up. And he warned me, repeatedly, that it was a stupid idea, that I shouldn't be doing this, that it would hurt you. But I didn't listen to him, just as always." A significant pause. "I should have. He was right and I- I was wrong. I was stupid."

John exhaled sharply. That was a big admission for Sherlock. John had never heard anything remotely like this out of the man's mouth. Suddenly, not seeing Sherlock's face wasn't an option any longer. He needed to see if he was being sincere or if this wasn't just another little game of his.

Turning as quickly as his leg would let him, John focused solely on Sherlock's expression.

His lips weren't trembling any longer but neither was he wearing his usual mask of calculated indifference. There were anxious furrows on his face and worried wrinkles around his eyes. His cheeks seemed even paler than usual.

As their eyes met once more, Sherlock blinked, clearly fighting not to look away himself. John wondered what he saw in John's face, if he noticed another week of mostly sleepless nights and all the anger and pain he had caused him.

"But now I know," Sherlock said and his voice was undeniably shaking now. "I know what I did was wrong. Wrong and terrible and _disgusting_. I- I _hurt_ you, John. I knew it'd happen but I didn't realise, I didn't _really_ understand what that meant until now. Now I do."

Once more, his eyes seemingly took in all that was John at the moment: the tightly clutched cain, the undoubtedly haggard face, the tension in his body. Almost unconsciously, John shifted, uncomfortable about being read, but knowing that doing so would help Sherlock understand.

When he was done, when he looked up again, John knew what he was about to say. Swallowing, John braced himself.

"I am sorry, John," Sherlock said. Never had he looked more sincere. "I am sorry I've worried you, I am sorry I've betrayed your trust. And I know this doesn't make it right and it doesn't make the pain go away, but I'm willing to- to try and be a better friend in the future. If you still want me to, that is."

Finally, he fell silent, looking for all the world like a man awaiting his final judgement.

The words had eased some of the pain John had been feeling as they were spoken, but it was the look, this _final_ look, that did it. Sherlock didn't expect forgiveness. He _asked_ for it. Denial, rejection - Sherlock thought they were just as likely as John's willing acceptance and forgiveness.

It really was inevitable; John smiled. Warmly.

"Apology accepted," he replied and watched Sherlock's face transform.

It was most obvious in the eyes, in the way they widened almost comically before they became soft and incredibly bright. It was less obvious, but undeniably there, in the mouth, edges curling up ever so slightly, and the body, that seemed to slump ever so slightly. Suddenly, Sherlock looked younger, better, healthier even.

"Oh," was all he said and John couldn't stop himself from chuckling.

"Yes, _oh_ ," he replied and then, Sherlock was chuckling as well.

Soon, both of them were laughing, awkwardly and completely inappropriately maybe, but who cared? They had laughed at crime scenes and after chases, so why couldn't they laugh off one or two weeks worth of tension and anxiety as well?

In the end, John was almost wheezing, one hand coming up two brush a stray tear from his cheeks.

When they had both caught their breath again, Sherlock stepped up to him, offering his hand.

"Friends?" he asked and for a moment, John was sure he detected the slightest of blushes on the other man's face.

Lifting an eyebrow at him, John pushed the hand to the side and embraced his friend instead, patting his back soothingly. Sherlock, seemingly too shocked by this to do anything, didn't immediately return the embrace and only managed a hesitant squeeze before John pulled back.

John coughed a single, rather embarrassed cough, but couldn't stop the large grin from forming on his face. It felt good, having his best friend back.

"That," he teased, "was the crappiest hug I've ever been given."

Sherlock smiled in return - an honest, cheerful smile, not the kind he gave suspects and witnesses to charm information out of them.

"I'm a quick study," he assured him.

"Yeah? Well, hugs like these are limited to highly unusual circumstances. You can show me after our next argument."

Apparently, it was too early to joke about that. Sherlock visibly tensed and opened his mouth, probably for some unnecessary (and untrue) declaration of how he would never do anything of the kind again.

"Sherlock," John said, placing a reassuring hand on the man's arm. "I'm sure we'll argue again, at some point. This was hardly our first fight and it won't be the last. Though," he added and made sure to look entirely serious, "I'd rather the next was about body parts floating in the bathtub or something more or less harmless like that. I don't think I could deal with another incident like this. Understood?"

Sherlock only nodded jerkily.

"Good," John said, squeezing Sherlock's arm before letting go. Determined to get past this, he stepped away. "Get out of that ridiculous coat of yours. As a punishment, I'm making you watch some more Bond movies. There's _plenty_ to choose from, I assure you. And don't you _dare_ comment on how it isn't realistic."

Shrugging out of his coat and scarf, Sherlock murmured something that sounded a lot like a comment on just that. John deliberately pretended not to have heard.

Later that night, when they were both dozing on the sofa in the living room, half-eaten take-away on the coffee table, John thought that this was the first time in weeks he was feeling entirely relaxed and ready to sleep.

And if he and Sherlock were sitting a bit closer to each other than it was strictly appropriate, well, that was surely just a coincidence.


	12. Chapter 12

When they walked onto the crime scene together for the first time after the big fight, Lestrade immediately knew that something had changed. And it wasn't that John had left the cane at home once more.

They were small things, really, something an outsider might have never picked up on. Maybe, it was Sherlock's influence that Lestrade himself saw it at all.

But, when you knew what you were looking for, it was undeniably there.

It was like a dance.

Sure, Sherlock was still all over the place, picking a fight with Anderson, antagonising Donovan, swirling his coat all over the place, touching the dead body where you _shouldn't bloody touch it_ , at least not without gloves.

But then, he'd patiently lift the tape for John as well instead of expecting him to rush through behind him. He'd throw a look at John while deducing the body, as if reassuring himself that he was still there. He'd give John a small smile, not the patent smirk, when the doctor gave his opinion or simply asked a question. And the way they stood - just a bit more closely, not touching, but nearly breathing the same air.

With anybody else, Lestrade might have suspected that there was more to it than friendship. But with those two? No.

Those were best friends, the picture book kind, though years ago Lestrade would have never associated something like that with Sherlock Holmes. Best friends that had overcome obstacles together, and were now at a point where they were entirely comfortable with sharing space, be it the living or personal kind.

It was, to be completely honest, quite touching.

When John came over to chat, grown tired of Sherlock looking for an ominous pair of gloves, Lestrade grinned at him.

"I did tell you it would be two weeks," John said.

However, the bitterness with which he had spoken those words the last time was gone completely. Now, he seemed entirely at ease - or at least, as relaxed as one could get while visiting a crime scene.

"And here you are," Lestrade agreed good-naturedly. "You all right, then?"

John let out a brief sigh.

"A bit of a murder, Sherlock Holmes making me pay a horrendous cab fee - just splendid. You?"

"A mysterious dead body, Sherlock Holmes annoying and demoralising my team - couldn't be better."

Grinning a bit, they both fell silent.

They stood quietly for a bit, both watching Sherlock walk all over the crime scene, looking for those gloves nobody would ever have thought even existed. Once more, Lestrade realised how much more alive the man seemed, how much more human even, ever since John Watson had decided that Sherlock Holmes was worth the effort.

Turning his head, Lestrade looked at the doctor, whose face was showing quiet bemusement at Sherlock crouching on the floor, one long arm half-way into shrubbery. He looked better now, not so tired anymore and definitely happier.

When Sherlock let out a yell of success, clutching what was clearly a pair of brown gloves and waving them at John, John smiled at Sherlock's excitement before finally realising he was being watched.

"What?" he asked, just as Sherlock shouted for John's assistance, saying something or the other about finding a shop selling a certain brand of leather gloves and half-chiding the doctor not to be slow and to hurry up.

"I did tell you he needed you," Lestrade hurried to tell him, before John's arm was clasped by an overenthusiastic consulting detective pulling him with him.

The smile John gave him was knowing, thankful and maybe, the tiniest bit resigned. He knew that he would be stuck with Sherlock Holmes, though that didn't seem to be the worst fate in the world, in his opinion.

Smiling to himself, Lestrade told his team to bag the evidence Sherlock hadn't stolen from under their very noses.

Today, though, he was much too happy for two certain men to be very angry about it.  
_____  
 _fin._


End file.
